


Beneath A Million Stars There's No Need To Pretend

by PrefectMoony



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, I won't even pretend otherwise, M/M, This is a Hallmark movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrefectMoony/pseuds/PrefectMoony
Summary: “It’s complicated, Lynch,” he says.“Uncomplicate it, then,” Ronan replies.A beat passes between them and it feels like the ending to a story Ronan didn’t even realize was still being told.—OR—Basically a Hallmark movie in which there is mutual pining, misunderstandings, friends to lovers, and some Christmas vibes sprinkled on top!
Relationships: Jordan/Declan Lynch, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 41
Kudos: 274





	Beneath A Million Stars There's No Need To Pretend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinealightonme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinealightonme/gifts).



> Hello Darling!!<3<3 The the shame that i feel is literally to the Nth degree, so I want to just start off by apologizing a million times over to both you and the people who ran the event, I’m just so so so sorry. You didn’t deserve to wait so long and I understand if you just don’t give a fuck anymore, but I am still really hopeful that you will enjoy this monstrosity. One of your ideas was Adam teaching Ronan how to ride a motorcycle, and well I took that and went fucking sideways with it. You are such a sweet person and so insanely talented that I just got all neurotic and well, this came about.  
> Thank you to you and the lovely people who ran this secret santa event from [Pynch Prompt Week](https://pynchpromptweek.tumblr.com) !!!
> 
> Huge HUGE thank yous to the most darling and amazing souls who took the time to look at different drafts of this!!! [kieranfae](https://kieranfae.tumblr.com) [pastelle-pvnk](https://pastelle-pvnk.tumblr.com) And [Effwit](https://effwit.tumblr.com) I’m so endlessly thankful for all your help and insight! Each of you are such angels!! all mistakes left over is my doing.!!
> 
> My only caveat is that the musical being discussed is in fact a real musical, but it’s only alluded to in very broad strokes so absolutely no spoilers, I definitely recommend people check it out, specifically the 2013 LA revival that’s found on Youtube <3 And yes the title is from one of my fav songs from the show fjoierajfioureahg!

The paint’s chipped on the far side of the wall to Ronan’s left. He recognizes it from two and a half years ago when he, in a fit of pure frustration and anger and confusion, had thrown one of Niall’s stupid gadgets against it. Ronan was still frustrated and angry and confused afterwards, made worse by his family, still dressed in their mourner’s black three weeks after Niall was reported dead, had walked in to find him blotchy-faced and crying. 

He’s never going to forget Aurora’s helpless little whimper, or Matthew’s confused pout. Still sees the emptiness in Declan’s eyes on especially rough days. But that was a long time ago; he’s better now. They’re all doing better. Absently, Ronan picks at the leather bands on his wrist, pretends that the still-healing scars there aren’t his own version of a blemish, like he himself isn’t damaged to no end.

It doesn’t work.

“Ronan.” He turns around, finds Declan walking over the threshold of the Lynch Upper East Side apartment, clad in a charcoal suit and light blue button up that matches his eyes. There’s no tie, so Ronan supposes he’s taking it casual today. Ronan knows that he and his older brother are in a better place now too, that the resentment and deception and rage that charged between them in the wake of Niall’s death has finally tempered down to brotherly jabs and inside jokes, but still, Ronan can’t help the way his skin crawls at the sight of Declan looking like such a professional. He supposes that has more to do with Declan being the boring-ass head of some startup or the other, while Ronan’s still considered in Hollywood’s good graces, even after over a year of hiding from the public eye.

“Where’s Ma?” Declan asks.

“Took Matty out to his hockey game. Where’s the wife and kid?”

“You can use their actual names, them being your sister and godson and all.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to see that delightful color of pissed off you get when I don’t,” Ronan goads while popping a reindeer-shaped cookie into his mouth. Aurora had baked them that morning, something she did for all of December leading up to Christmas day.

Declan’s answering scowl is glorious.

“Jordan went to finish some holiday shopping with Hennessy,” he says, toeing off his loafers with irritation. “And they claim that Alex’s cheeks always get them free samples at that bakery off Ninety-Third.”

“Whoring him out already?”

“I will punch you if you ever say that about my son again.”

“Consider me terrified,” Ronan snorts, unbothered. “What are you doing here anyways?”

“I’m picking up some of Zander’s favorite toys Ma set aside for us to take to the Barns this year,” Declan tells him. “What are you doing here all by yourself? You actually like hockey.”

“Wasn’t up for it,” Ronan says with a dangerous amount of candor, bottom lip worried between his teeth, preventing him from spewing out anything he might regret.

Declan nods, accepting the offer while he pours himself a cup of the hot chocolate Ronan had brewed, and sits across from him on the sofa.

“So how’re things going,” he gently probes, either unwilling or just competent enough not to speak out loud what’s settled between them in the pregnant silence. 

“Fine,” Ronan retorts waspishly, hoping that Declan will take the fucking hint to just drop it. He really doesn’t feel like getting into a brawl today.

Thankfully, Declan does, just smiles that placid, congenial smile that he offers to the cameras and tabloids, the one Niall sometimes boasted. The one that Ronan never understood how to emulate, how to lie so blatantly even with silence.

“Good, because I got this in the mail today.” Declan digs into his satchel and pulls out a thick, bright white manuscript, the sort Ronan hasn’t seen in a while. Ordinarily when a production studio just wants to be polite they’ll send through a few scenes to some actors on their list, trying to entice their main target. But when they actually send a whole godforsaken script, that usually clues an agent in that they mean money.

So why does Ronan still feel like this doesn’t bode well.

“It’s from Malory,” Declan says unnecessarily. “I guess that one of his other clients, I think it’s Dick Campbell whoever, is set to produce or direct or something like that, and he thinks you’ll fit perfectly for one of the leading roles.”

Ronan recognizes the name: Richard Campbell Gansey III. They’re the same age, and it’s pretty typical that child actors kind of swim in the same circles, like a way more fucked up and decadent version of high school. But instead of pot heads, it’s folks like K who would try anything to get a thrill. And instead of geeks, it’s tech developers worth millions. The football players and cheerleaders are still around in the form of the Brad Pitts and Reese Witherspoons of the world. All to say, Ronan’s never felt like he quite belonged in that circle, and those he bothered to keep in touch with feel much the same, which includes Richard Camel Gansey III.

Though Ronan was the star of his own sitcom for eight seasons — starting from when he was just an eleven-year-old kid — Gansey to the contrary came from a bonafide Hollywood dynasty. His great-grandmother had high tea every Sunday with Joan Crawford and Cary Grant. His grandfather had romantic rendezvouses with beauties like Ava Garner and Kim Novak, all the while being the golden poster child for any John Wilder picture. Both of his parents won three Oscars apiece in their heyday, and his sister is the second coming of Katherine Hepburn. So of course it was natural that Gansey was brought up in the thoroughly more respected live theatre crowd, a Broadway darling and award season favorite. With his boyish smiles and articulate way of speech, Ronan was honestly shocked when they first ran into one another at some award show held by MTV, both fourteen and frazzled and feeling lost at sea. Shocked because he was the first genuine person Ronan had ever met in the industry (save for one, someone who Ronan downright refuses to think about most days less he gets lost in memories of moving dollies, and resplendent laughter and curls that go tawny in the light). 

Gansey was one of the first peers who had made Ronan laugh with no ulterior motive. In fact, he seemed as disdainful towards the spotlight as Ronan felt, even if he was a million times more charming to the crowds of raucous fans. They had kept in touch ever since, though admittedly it had a severe drop off once Niall had died and Ronan’s world tilted off orbit. Gansey had tried, but Ronan couldn’t handle being around anyone at that time. He’s still ashamed from what went down, of who he let himself start to become.

No. 

Ronan won’t let himself feel guilty for the past anymore. He can’t let himself feel the weighted sorrow and regret there; he’s terrified of what would happen if he kept blaming himself so endlessly.

He shakes off the memories and grounds himself back to the present. 

“What’s this?” Ronan asks with considerably less snarl than how he would’ve regarded Declan only half a year prior.

“A play,” Declan intones. “I think it’s actually a spin on movie/musicals. An ode to the MGM age, I suppose.”

“Stop talking like an ass,” Ronan snaps.

“Just as soon as you stop acting like one,” Declan counters. 

And okay, fine, point. That was good.

He goes back to perusing through the thick booklet, idly wondering how old-ass Malory was able to pick it up and send it at all. 

“What is this? these are lyrics? There’s no actual dialogue.”

“I know. It’s called a pop opera for a reason, dumbass.” Ronan waggles his tongue at him before returning to flip through the manuscript. “He wants you to play the character of Peter, I think? Hmm, or maybe it was the other one, I dunno. It’s really hard to understand that guy.”

Ronan purses his lips, ignores the lurch in his heart, the telltale sign of prickling excitement. He’s been itching to get back to work for months now, ever since their family’s returned from their extended Irish getaway. And from the few lines he’s actually picked up on, this one seems interesting enough. 

No, that’s an understatement. This seems like something he prayed for.

“What is up with this shit, anyways?” Ronan asks mulishly, but Declan isn’t fazed. He can probably detect when Ronan’s actually pissed and when he’s posturing just to put on a show.

“It’s a musical, a reasonably popular one from the research I’ve done. They want to premier it on Broadway, and film it from Lincoln Center for posterity, like Falsettos, or Light in the Piazza.”

“Yeah, dickwad, I got that. I mean why do they want me?”

“Hell if I know, you’re a heathen.” 

“I hate you.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, little brother.”

Ronan promptly pours five spoonfuls of salt into his mug of cocoa. Declan just looks put out, like he couldn’t have stopped him if he tried.

.-

Ronan kind of just fell into acting. He’d always been an artsy type of kid; had splattered finger-paints against the walls of the different buildings speckled around the Barns that Niall had given him the clear to use as his life-sized canvas. He competed in Irish singing competitions with his brothers and always was so gleeful when his mother — golden and bright and so endlessly attentive to her boys — would take his small hands into her own on the family’s grand piano and teach Ronan how to play one of the French lullabies she sang them at bedtime. It was something just for the pair of them; a rarity in a family as tight knit and rowdy as the Lynches. Declan was perfectly content with just knowing how to play a few songs on his violin, and Matty never could focus on anything for too long. Those moments between Ronan and his mother were unblemished and magical and just for the pair of them. 

It’s why Ronan felt so gutted when they were forced to stop these small respites by the second season of Ricky’s World — the shooting schedule had only become more demanding with the increase of episodes after it’s success. Along with that, Niall had hired some hotshot manager from LA to make this small, if not beloved, television role that Ronan personified into a full time gig as Hollywood’s latest and brightest young star. Between seasons of Ricky’s World, Ronan would act in high fantasy flicks and historical roles where he got to whip out his overdone Irish accent: one that Niall preened at but was in all actuality an inside joke between Ronan and both his brothers when they were forced to go visit their Lynch grandparents back in Belfast every year, so as to “not lose touch of your roots, my boys.”

By the premier of the fifth season, Ronan had basically become a household name. There were articles written about him being the next Ben Affleck. Magazine covers used his likeness to sell record breaking issues. Hell, Ronan still has an entire room designated for the surfboards and blimp awards and popcorn statues he didn’t give a fuck about winning. Most especially during that time, Ronan remembers how everyone was abuzz with Ricky’s World. Over it’s landmark accomplishments as a sitcom, but mostly for how it not only brought up its leading character as a serious contender for any fantastical role, but how on the other side of the spectrum, it produced the newest, terribly talented and charmingly aloof prestige actor. How Ricky's best friend, a pretty boy born on the wrong side of the tracks — all jutting cheekbones and crooked smiles and a musical sounding baritone that really could take someone’s breath away if used in the right cadence — moved on from stealing scenes from his cast mates and stealing the hearts of his viewers to instead being cast in small independent films that got standing ovations from all the festivals that counted. He was eventually nominated for a Grammy in his second ever leading role, and ultimately solidified himself as a staple on Hollywood’s radar, as vital and recognizable as folks like Leonardo DiCaprio or Glenn Close.

People just couldn’t comprehend how Ronan Lynch and Adam Parrish came out of the same show, and honestly, Ronan didn’t blame them. They both loved the work. Loved being actors, becoming stars. But where Adam handled it like an actual job, something to cultivate and strategically plot out so to ensure the best possible outcome, Ronan had only treated his stint on Ricky’s World, and his subsequent roles, as a fun experience. It’s not as if he actually depended on acting for a living. Ronan grew up with a place that he could always call home. He had millions upon millions in his trust fund, and had parents who not only adored him, but told him that he could do anything he set his mind on. They loved his acting as much as they loved his singing and paintings and all the other talents he dabbled in. And Ronan liked that, liked not conforming, not having to be tethered to anything, having the world at his fingertips. It’s why he was so cross at Niall for making him do so many roles back to back, for supporting this profession more than any of the rest, obliviously making Ronan feel suffocated by all of it. 

But now… now Ronan would give anything just to see his father’s winsome smile one last time.

Ronan’s at the same grand piano from his childhood when Aurora finds him later that night, long golden hair set in curlers and feet clad in her favorite pink bunny slippers that Declan had picked out for her last Christmas. Ronan still privately thinks Jordan was behind the gift idea.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she says, adjusting one of the hanging tinsel. 

“I guess I’m not as mysterious as Tiger Beat likes to think,” Ronan snorts, dry as all get out.

“You know, I’ll never understand where you and Declan get your humor from,” she says, words hugged in playful amusement. “Your father never cared for sarcasm.”

Ronan doesn’t reply, still lost in his own memories. He hates how he gets like this whenever even thinking of Niall, especially during the holidays — the only time he was ever guaranteed not to be on one of his plethora of business trips. Ronan hates thinking of how disappointed he must be now. He had put all he had into building Ronan up as all the things he couldn’t be. Niall was a great actor, well renowned in his own right, but he was limited by the fact he was older when getting his big break, and by how his accent was still noticeable enough that it strayed directors away from casting him. But Ronan, Niall’s spitting image, was full of the possibilities he never had. And look at him now, flushing it all away with his stupid decisions.

“Where are you, darling,” Aurora asks while stepping closer, running a hand through Ronan’s newly grown out locks while peering down at him with concern twinkling in her eyes. Her lips turn down into an eerily familiar frown that she only wears when she’s afraid for one of her sons. Ronan’s become painfully acquainted with it within the past couple of years.

“I dunno, Ma,” Ronan admits, sullen as he starts to play a small round of keys: a short harmony she had taught him so long ago. He thinks it’s strange how this is some warped mirror of them from when he was younger, when Niall was still around and Aurora didn’t have such dark circles beneath her pale eyes. Back when Ronan was excited to learn something new from her every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon; back when Aurora would softly correct the placement of his fingers and teach him how to breathe with the melody. Aurora hadn’t been taller than Ronan since he was twelve years old. He’s not a kid anymore, but it’s nice to know that he’s still got her support. At least that’s something he can depend on even now, even after all of it.

“Declan told me about Malory sending over a new script.” She moves to sit beside him, adjusting his fingers like so long ago. 

“And?” 

“And I wasn’t happy with it, but he was right to give it to you. It’s your decision, my darling.”

Ronan casts his gaze downwards, away from Aurora, away from the worry etched in her soft countenance and the patience he finds there, the patience she’s always retained for him. 

“I dunno if I can do it, Ma,” Ronan admits, secure in the darkness draped over the pair of them, trapped in shadow where he’s still afraid to belong.

“Nonsense,” Aurora reproves, her ordinarily tinkling timbre sounding steely and true. “Ronan Niall Lynch, you are brilliant and talented and so, so strong.” She moves his head to rest on her shoulder, Ronan has to bend down and it’s not really comfortable at all, but she still smells like the hickory and bonfires and sunlight that painted his childhood. “If you don’t want to take this job, my darling, then that’s absolutely fine. You take all the time you need. But if this is about fear, then I won’t stand for it.”

She wipes away the tears starting to gather in his eyes, kissing the crown of his head like he was eight years old again and the worst of his problems was Declan hiding his action figures, like all he needs is for his mother to comfort him.

“Thanks, Ma,” Ronan breathes out.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

.-

“Can you even sing?” Hennessy asks a week later, blithe as she takes a severe left turn in her Jag. The bells hanging off her ears swing and jingle as she swerves.

“Fucking Christ, eyes on the road, Brandy!” Ronan barks, hands gripped on the armrest for dear life.

“Okay, first off, don’t get all boomer on me, loser,” Hennessy says shortly while veering into the next lane. “And secondly, this thing where you just call me different names of alcoholic beverages isn’t charming or cute,” she says loftily, comes to an abrupt stop when the yellow light suddenly flips red. 

“How are you such an awful driver?” Ronan grouses.

“Dunno.” She gives him a one armed shrug, flipping down the mirror to adjust her gloss. “You were too busy teaching Parrish how to drive Niall’s stick shift and left me in the dust, I suppose.”

Ronan’s heart does not fucking contract at that casual memory. That’s what she wants! He doesn’t even think of it.

“You are such a shit,” he tells her instead, steadfast.

“And you haven’t answered my question,” Hennessy counters, speeding up fifteen over the limit. Jesus fucking Christ, she’s right, he’s really turning into an old priss about this. “Can you even sing?”

“Oy, you’ve known me since we were like, literal children! You married me on tv! And you don’t know if I can carry a tune?”

Hennessy flips her hair, narrowly avoiding an oncoming SUV. 

“I’ve got a very limited amount of fucks to give, Lynch. You and your white boy foolery aren’t on my list of priorities.” 

“Glad to feel the fucking love.”

She swings into a parking space six blocks outside the swanky Broadway stage where auditions are being held, turning around to cast him one of her brighter smiles — all dimples and white teeth and a pixelated gleam to her dark eyes. He hates her, but yeah, he’s thankful he gets to call her his best friend.

“You know it, broody.” She smacks a kiss to his cheek, guffawing when Ronan uses an emphatic hand to wipe it off.

“You are such a shit,” he tells her again with feeling.

“No time for that, Lynch doll, the stage is calling your name! Don’t you hear the cries of malnourished chorus girls and the smell of too much hairspray?”

“A shit, Brandy! You are a shit!”

.-

Ronan had almost forgotten how much of a pain in the ass auditions were. He hadn’t actually auditioned for anything since he was fourteen; from then on studios just kind of sent over scripts and waited to see if he’d accept or not. Ronan wonders if this is a test, if they all are intimately familiar with the struggles that the paparazzi were oh-so-excited to report on, and if they’re just waiting for him to fail. Well fuck that. Ronan’s not the type. He’s the type to grid his teeth and square his shoulders and fight until the war is won, Declan’s voice calling him a ‘viciously stubborn little fuck’ ringing in his mind all the while.

It ends up being Jason that he’s auditioning for, and is only given the song like fifteen minutes before it’s his turn on the queue.

“Don’t pee yourself up there, Lynch.” Hennessy pretends to blow kisses, and he flips her the bird.

The song he sings is woven with the idea of fairy tales, of being accepted and getting to love freely. Its lyrics are desperate and frightened and tender and stripped bare. Ronan feels a heaviness to his chest when he sings it, thinks of how fucking lucky he is being brought up with a family who didn’t care about anything as arbitrary as the gender he was attracted to, a family that loved and cherished and accepted him no matter what.

When he’s done, the small crowd — made up of three old ass producers, an indifferent looking aid, a glowing Gansey, and a vibrant Hennessy — all applaud. Ronan feels it when his lips dip down into a small smile, proud of what he’s done here. Even if he doesn’t get the role, he put himself out there and that’s a better feeling than he thought it would be.

.-

“I call for celebratory sundaes from Chateau Bartell,” Hennessy crows afterwards, once they’ve gathered their things and slipped outdoors so the next act can audition. 

“But that’s your favorite food at your favorite joint,” Ronan needles with a cocked brow.

“You just got a once in a lifetime role on like, America’s oldest stage, while I’m still trying to up my contract with HBO,” Hennessy pouts. “No need to be selfish.”

Ronan laughs, hip checking her while they begin to promenade down Forty-Fifth. 

“Don’t know that yet, Tequila, those old shits could still call me up and say they don’t want the liability of a fucking drunkard on set.”

“Mmm, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hennessy preens, eyes glittering, focused on a spot over Ronan’s shoulder. He’s about to ask what the fuck is up with her, but is interrupted by the sound of none other than Richard Campbell Gansey III calling after them, frantic and frazzled and flushed.

“You guys are quick,” he tells them, breathing labored as he tries to readjust himself to his typical, crisp perfection. 

“Yo, Dick man,” Ronan smiles at his old friend, going in for a quick hug. 

“You were great out there, Ronan!” Gansey tells him. He is everything Ronan remembers him being. All old Virginia accent, and megawatt smiles, and enthusiastic spirit. He’s probably the most vivid person Ronan knows, made more so with the collection of abrasively colored polos he wears like some badge of honor. “It was absolutely inspired! All of New York must’ve gone quiet, I swear.”

Ronan is reluctantly fond. He looks at Gansey and he remembers being wild and free and young. Ronan sometimes forgets that he is still all of those things, sometimes thinks that the leather bands on his wrists are shackles to fetter him to a lifetime of mistakes and regrets and disappointment. 

“Seriously, no need to gas him up more than necessary,” Hennessy says, snorting, but Gansey just shakes his head, totally genuine.

“You impressed the producer so much that they just want to offer you the role outright, no callbacks or any of that hogwash,” Gansey tells him, completely enthused. “I knew it! You were the first person I thought of when they told me they want to do a Broadway run of this show.”

Ronan pretends not to feel his cheeks redden, attempting to avert his gaze so as not to give away just how thoroughly he related to Jason’s character, to the father he wants to impress and the faith he wants to adhere to and the boy he’s so maddeningly in love with — the way Jason felt completely breathless when doing nothing but getting to hold Peter’s hand.

When Ronan had first read that, he was thrust back to being a flustered thirteen-year-old, being introduced to the new cast mate who’d be playing Ricky’s rival-turned-friend. No one at the time had been privy to just how thoroughly the audience would fall in love with Tristan’s character, leading to a recurring guest role in the latter half of the season and then flourishing to a permanent slot as a co-star for the subsequent four before he left half way through the eighth. 

“This is Adam Parrish,” Mindy, the director for nearly the whole run of the show, had briskly introduced them on Adam’s first day.

Ronan immediately took note of Adam’s bright blue eyes — pretty enough to be on one of those Disney princes from the movies Matthew was obsessed with — his slightly smaller hands that were all slender fingers and knobby knuckles and rough calluses, and the way his barely-there smile made Ronan’s heart twist up, fierce and unrelenting. 

But no.

Ronan told himself he wouldn’t be looking towards the past any longer, and God damn it, he won’t be. It’s the future from here on out. 

“He’s an interesting character,” Ronan finally just blurts, making it so Gansey’s grin goes soft, as if he could read the meaning behind Ronan’s brashness. 

“Well, you were the final role we were trying to fill, so you can meet the rest of the cast at the first rehearsal Monday morning.”

“Are you serious?” Ronan asks, brow cocked and words dripping with the excitement he wouldn’t let himself feel quite yet.

“Of course, Ronan!” Gansey beams, like he always knew it, like he always saw something more in Ronan that he himself could never detect. “So be prepared to practice, practice, practice! We’re going to blow them all away come opening night.”

“Fuck yeah you guys will!” Hennessy squawks.

“My apologies, I don’t think I’ve been lucky enough to make your acquaintance?” Gansey says, eyes bright with candor as he turns around to face her more directly.

“Hennessy,” she says with a smile, as charmed by Gansey as everyone is, “Ronan’s life coach and acting idol.”

“Watch it, twat,” Ronan huffs.

“You know it’s true,” she says in a singsong sort of tone. “I mean, what would Ricky’s World be without his greatest love, Celeste! Hmmm…. I guess greatest love might be a stretch considering that weirdly intense bromance he had with Tristan?”

“I will literally end you,” Ronan warns.

“You need me too much, love,” Hennessy croons.

“Oh, splendid,” Gansey crows. “Ronan really needs someone to counter his tit with a tat.” 

“Gotta say man, I’m not really a tit kinda guy,” Ronan says, just to get a rise out of him.

“Oh, wha— No, I meant. I mean, of course I knew that—“ Gansey begins to sputter, face infused with a flaming blush.

“Oh man, Gansey, you should see the look on your face,” Ronan finally guffaws, cutting the tension in one foul swoop.

Gansey takes in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders like he’s gathering his bearings once more.

“Glad to see you’re much of the same, old friend.”

Part of Ronan wants to correct him, tell him that they’re only twenty three, they don’t have old anything, but the rest of him is so totally gleeful that he gets to continue calling him a friend that Ronan opts to just punch his arm affectionately and smile. He’s thankful when Gansey seems to understand the meaning behind the gesture.

.-

Early December in the city is the least magical place Ronan has ever witnessed; he doesn’t give a fuck what those damn Meg Ryan movies try to show otherwise. It’s always freezing enough to make his teeth rattle, the streets are forever jam-packed with frantic holiday shoppers, and the ground is flushed with a pitiful, slushy excuse for snow. No, not snow -- wet fucking dirt that happens to have bits of snowflakes mixed in with the mud and twigs and dog shit. 

God, Ronan cannot wait till they all go back home to the Barns for Christmas, where the meadows glitter with a blanket of actual frost, and the house is dressed up in the fairy lights and vibrant wreaths that the season demands. It’s the only way the holiday should be celebrated, and no one can tell Ronan otherwise.

“This place sucks,” he says morosely, lips pinched and brows furrowed.

“Careful, love, or your face’ll freeze like that,” Jordan warns him with a smile as she and Matthew stroll further down the row of kiosks in the frankly embarrassing excuse for a Christmas market. He bares his teeth at her before Alexander, babbling and bright, begins to tug on his hat.

“Nice, kid, now do that to your dad’s curls next time he holds you, alright?” Ronan tells him conspiratorially before kissing the tip of his nose and buying him a lollipop from one of the candy vendors. He was already inwardly laughing at Declan’s furious diatribe on added sugars and the benefits of a purely organic diet, before he got distracted by the sight of Jordan hiking up on Matthew’s shoulders to try and reach the star on one of the Christmas trees.

“Christ, kid, both your parents are loons,” he blanches to an oblivious Alexander, who’s too busy slobbering all over his treat to pay his mother’s antics or uncle’s warnings any mind. “Good man,” Ronan approves, pulling out his chirping phone from his back pocket; he’s stopped purposely destroying them in new and elaborate ways ever since using it as the primary archive for all of Alexander’s hijinks.

He’s expecting a message from Hennessy, one of her daily complaints about her painfully dimwitted cast mates — usually in reference to the blonde who swears she didn’t vote for Trump, but also admits she never trusted Clinton either — or possibly one from Noah, a photograph from his latest summer smash hit about vampire lifeguards (“Bro think Twilight meets Baywatch” “The fuck I will, Czerny.”) Hell, Ronan wouldn’t be surprised if it were Gansey even, finalizing the time for Monday’s rehearsal.

What Ronan most certainly does not expect to find when he slides open his phone is a pair of notifications from a contact he hasn’t used in so long that there aren’t even any saved messages on this device. A contact that makes his heart do this stupid hiccup thing as if he were some sort of lovestruck teen in a CW show. A contact that brings Ronan back to being fifteen and teasing and so fucking in love, even if he refuses to put lyrics to the feeling. 

.-

~6 years ago~

“You know Drake’s the one hosting it this year,” Ronan tells Adam moodily while collapsing back into his chair in the lounge area of Monmouth, the base of operations for anything filmed on Ricky’s World. Just another perk of being on a network sitcom.

“This paper is due in four hours and you’ve written the intro and half of a body paragraph,” Adam gripes in turn, typing away on his battered laptop. Ronan knows that Adam’s saving up for a new one, is confused to where the hell most of his paychecks are going but never asks because he knows that whenever he tries prying is when Adam shuts down the most. He’d learned his lesson when Adam had stopped speaking to him completely for two entire months last year after Ronan had probed about the nasty colored bruise he had acquired right beneath his eye and against his collarbone. 

Now Ronan ignores all the bruises and cuts and scars and he swallows down the worry there too, and it works itself out. He was still terrified but at least Adam manages to look his way without that almost painful tension woven through his shoulders.

“Whatever Parrish, it’s an online school for bratty teens, it doesn’t really matter.”

“If you wanna end up a dried up child actor by thirty with no other options but to take up bit parts while praying for some sort of reboot, like a Disney kid, then be my fucking guest,” Adam says caustically, never taking his eyes off the screen. “But for the love of God, shut the fuck up while I try finishing this analysis of the bourgeoisie, will you?”

Mock pissy, Ronan tells him that the only answer is obviously just to eat the rich, which makes it so the corner of Adam’s mouth finally curved upwards, and Ronan’s heart contracts at the sight. 

He would do anything to make Adam smile, knows that the truth of it is as innate as the blue to his eyes or Irish resilience that sang in his veins.

“Sage sentiments from the boy whose daddy could probably buy the state.”

“He tried. Apparently it was undemocratic of him,” Ronan needles, inching closer to Adam, a dangerous game he’s begun playing with himself because he’s always been so God damn stupid, “I think the governor said it was an affront to the framers’ vision.” 

“He was wrong,” Adam corrects, because of course he knows everything about everything. “Everyone knows that Hamilton was a fucking elitist little hobgoblin, he thought that only the rich should run shit.”

“Look, Parrish, only you know that, because you’re a fucking nerd.”

Adam glares right then, fully indignant.

“I hope they eat you first,” he tells him.

“I’m sure I’d taste delicious.” Ronan sniffs, most certainly does not flush at the way Adam’s pretty eyes flickered up and down his person, always fucking assessing. “What you want a taste?”

Once their gazes lock, Ronan doesn’t dare to move — always so stupid, hurtling into a supernova as if he wouldn’t burn on impact. But the pull Adam held sometimes felt stronger than gravity.

A minute passed.

The tension breaks.

Adam goes back to his essay, and Ronan never finishes his, and they spend the night watching cringe inducing horror flicks and pigging out on snacks instead of going to the afterparty.

Ronan’s heartbeat doesn’t even out for the rest of the night. But what he does do— in as nonchalant way as possible— is change Adam’s contact name for acting like such a stick in the mud, cackling at how Adam had only stuck his tongue out in retaliation.

~*~

Management: Congrats on the part  
Management: Can’t wait to work with you again 

Ronan momentarily wonders how strokes are supposed to feel, questions if he’s in the midst of one right now. But no, probably not. He’s still standing. Still has a giggling Alexander in his arms. Is still gawking at the messages that must’ve been sent by Adam’s hand. So yeah, he must be breathing, there’s no way he’s not. But why does it still feel like his insides are compressed into a ball in his gut, while his mind has gone all groggy and confused.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Declan’s voice drags him into the present, walking from Tiffany’s where he was surely picking up another diamond charm to add to the Cartier bracelet he had gotten Jordan on their first anniversary as husband and wife, like he’s done for every Christmas since. “Or like you’re gonna be sick.” 

He picks up his son from Ronan’s grasp, tosses out the lollipop into a nearby trash can with a disgusted grimace, and asks Ronan why he looks so out of sorts.

“I’m going to kill Gansey,” he answers him, punctuated by the sound of a crashing tree and shattered ornaments coming from nearby.

Declan only nods. 

“Seems on brand.” He walks up to meet Jordan and Matthew halfway from where they were being escorted out by an officer, and for the life of him, Ronan isn’t sure where he was directing that statement.

.-

Ronan does not kill Gansey, or even attempt to do so.

He’s a fully fledged adult now, even has the ID to prove it. He’s fine. So what if he had no warning about this apparent casting decision. It doesn’t matter. He’s good. What the fuck ever. He doesn’t care that he’s going to be working with Adam on a Broadway stage once a night and twice on Sundays for the foreseeable future. It’s all whatever.

“You’re doomed,” Hennessy mock croons before patting his cheek consolingly.

Fuck that, she’s wrong, and he tells her as much.

Honest to God, so what? They haven’t even spoken to one another in years. Hell, the last contact they ever had was when Adam sent a bouquet of flowers and a generic card, one he probably had an assistant write, after Niall’s funeral. The last time they even traded pleasantries was when they ran into one another at the opening of Jordan’s Brooklyn gallery years before that. Just because they were pretty close — not even that, closish at best — when they were kids acting in their first real parts in Hollywood, doesn’t mean it would stay that way. They grew up and grew apart and now they’re strangers all over again. Ronan’s not working with Adam Parrish, his costar and the boy who jumped into the Atlantic in the middle of winter on a dare by Ronan because they were buzzed and sixteen and reckless. He’s working with Adam Parrish, the guy that Gansey casted and the one who Vanity Fair declared as having the perfect James Dean pout.

Not the same person at all.

Hennessy is wrong, and Ronan is going to be fucking fantastic.

“Sure you will be, sweets,” she snorts before rubbing her knuckles into his head.

.-

Cabeswater is one of the more modest options in the few that are bestowed with the qualifier of a professional Broadway theatre. Smaller than most, it was built in the mid-nineteenth century, ornate without being too pretentious. It has a large enough stage that lends itself kindly to smaller ensemble-focused shows, holding an audience of around five hundred.

“It has a good history about it, too,” Gansey had very nearly crowed through the line when he had called Ronan the night before he was expected for rehearsal. It was the first time in a long time that Ronan actually answered, and even longer since Ronan admitted to himself that he missed the easy ebb and flow of their conversations. He’d forgotten that once upon a time he had considered Gansey a third brother, a fifth limb. “You know it’s where the original run of a Philadelphia Story was performed? Way back in the thirties! Isn’t that remarkable?”

“I bet sister dearest was salivating over that factoid,” Ronan had snorted.

“Helen insisted on my casting her because of it,” he had laughed. “Lucky for her she that actually warrants the part.”

“Lucky us,” Ronan replies, deciding right then to not grill Gansey on the Parrish decision. After all, he has a relationship with Adam too, even if they had first met because of Ronan. For fuck’s sake, Gansey never even suspected Ronan’s feelings for the other boy, too oblivious and wide-eyed and trusting that Ronan would tell him something so huge. It’s all fine, Ronan will just get through it. Hell, maybe those feelings are really and truly dead and buried. He hasn’t seen Adam in so long, who knows.

.-

Ronan walks into Cabeswater early the next day and is accosted by a shrewd Helen Gansey, dressed in a prim black ensemble, her shiny chestnut hair gliding down her back in a pristine braid. She’s glaring daggers at him, arms wrapped across her chest and weight slung to her left hip.

“You’re seventeen minutes past roll call,” she says.

“Nice to see you, too?” he retorts. 

“God, you are such a stage virgin, Lynch.” She huffs, pivoting on her heels before storming off. 

“She’s gonna be a great Ivy,” someone else, a shorter girl with a round face and kind eyes, remarks from beside him, sticking her hand out once Ronan looks her way. “I’m Gillian, your sister— erm, I mean Jason’s.”

“You’re playing Nadia,” Ronan ascertains.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s me,” she chirps, now with an abashed grimace as she moves her unshaken hand back to her side. “Everyone else is still finishing off their coffees, Gansey didn’t want to start without you.” 

“Right. Lead the way.” 

Her smile goes a bit thin, and Ronan tries reminding himself not to be so curt on the first encounter.

.-

It’s not exactly the government imploding, stars colliding, world quaking moment Ronan is expecting when they meet once more. Instead, it’s Adam leveling him with a gaze from across the refreshments table. It’s Adam offering one of his more genuine half grins before Gansey calls for everyone to sit around with their scripts. It’s Ronan thinking that God, this is weird, and God, he looks good, and God, he can’t tell Hennessy that she might have been right all along.

“I reckon you’ve all begun the memorization process already?” Gansey asks with a cocked brow, overly enthused as ever and being answered with a legion of bobbing heads. “Splendid! I think we should be off book by the end of the week. But for now let’s start with building the chemistry amongst you all, shall we?” 

They spend the morning rehearsing the group numbers, with barely a moment to catch their breaths in between. Adam’s sitting across the table and three seats down, beside a tiny girl with a peculiar name and an abundance of hair clips, not a prime arrangement to even attempt to start up a conversation. But every now and then Ronan can feel the heavy gaze of someone focused on him, and when he looks up Adam’s face is turned and cheeks are flushed.

Interesting.

.-

The tiny girl is called Blue — and there’s no way she’s not the daughter of some Hollywood starlet, who else would have the gall to pick that name out of any of the rest — Ronan finds this out when Gansey pauses for a lunch break and Ronan spots Adam outdoors waving him his way, like they are casual friends and this isn’t a complete mind fuck. Which, well, Ronan supposes that’s exactly what this is on Adam’s end. Mother Mary, that is pathetic.

“He’s such a douche!” Ronan hears Blue bellow once he reaches them, clad in a red holiday jumper that even Ronan could admit looks fetching against her dark complexion.

“Blue’s talking about one of the other actors,” Adam explains to Ronan, eyes softer than he remembers, not so thoroughly detached.

“Tad!” Blue clarifies. “God, even his name is obnoxious!”

“Who the fuck is he?” Ronan asks, probably still curt as all get out but Adam’s always been able to give back what Ronan doles his way, and this Blue girl looks like her life’s purpose is to be a walking contradiction.

“The dude playing Matt,” Adam says.

“The blonde who was mentally undressing Adam the entire rehearsal,” Blue corrects with a menacing curl of the mouth. 

“Untrue, and too crude for a Monday morning,” Adam rebukes, begins rubbing his hands together to get some warmth into them. 

“That’s the tagline for this business we call show, doll face,” Blue retorts, leaving Ronan confused by the effortless banter between them — a traitorous, ugly part of him suddenly petty over the thousands of possibilities suddenly splayed out before him in how Adam and Blue are connected, in how they’ve become this familiar with one another. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I spotted the head of hair belonging to the dude playing my boyfriend in this thing. I wanna figure out if he’s completely insufferable or just plain awful.”

“Glad you’re keeping an open mind,” Adam snorts.

“You could probably spot Cheng’s hair from fucking space,” Ronan replies.

“Oh, you’re mean!” Blue grins, absolutely delighted. “Of course you’re mean! You worked with a prepubescent Adam for God’s sake! That must’ve been on par with the fucking first world war when he got in one of his moods.”

“You were leaving, weren’t you?” Adam needles, glowering.

“Don’t miss me too terribly, beautiful,” Blue mock croons before bouncing up on her toes to peck his cheek. She offers Ronan a sparing wave before she runs to catch up to the abrasively orange thing that Cheng calls a car. Ronan remembers them working on one of the Lord of the Rings prequels together a couple years back and is almost certain that they had drunkenly totaled that monstrosity good and proper. He’s sort of insulted that he actually brought it back to life, Frankenstein-style. 

“I can feel your vehicular disapproval from here, Lynch,” Adam says, moves to blowing some actual air into his palms. He’s never been one for the cold.

“What ever happened to class, Parrish? For God’s sake, he’s got tacky ass designs painted on the trunk!”

Adam’s eyes not so discreetly wander to Ronan’s bicep, right where Adam — under duress — had been dragged along to watch Ronan get an ‘RW’ pricked onto his skin the night the premier of the last season of Ricky’s World had aired.

“Fuck you, asshole, tattoos are not the same at all.”

Faux owlish, Adam only shrugs, begins his track down the street, clearly expecting Ronan to follow suit.

It’s hitting Ronan all at once, the reality of this situation. This is the first time they’ve been alone together since probably the filming of Adam’s final episode, only a bit before Adam’s eighteenth birthday. That can’t be true, and yet it is.

It’s disorienting to think about, which is probably why he doesn’t catch it when Adam asks how he’s been doing the first, second, or even third time around.

“Oh, yeah, I’m good,” Ronan mutters, tries avoiding the questioning gaze Adam’s pinning him with now.

“Your brothers? Ma?” His words go stilted right then, and Ronan knows that he’s thinking of Niall but isn’t daring to speak it out loud, and Ronan isn’t sure if he’s thankful for that or if he wants to shake him and shout to stop the pretense.

“Everyone’s good, Parrish.” Ronan willfully bites back the counter that they’re not the ones who just left out of the blue, or the ones who cut off all contact, or even the ones who couldn’t even face him till right now. He doesn’t want to open that can of fucking issues, not now, preferably not ever. They’ll each probably spend six to nine months on the show, and then go back to their normal lives, the ones that never intersect and the ones that Adam obviously favored.

Adam looks at him for a minute longer, lips pursed and fair brows knit together. Ronan could practically watch the thousands of thoughts lighting up his ocean eyes, measuring the situation, developing a theory, interconnecting the hypothesis into one lasting crescendo of understanding. He’s brilliant to the core, Ronan’s always known that. But he’s also always known that Adam never presses where he’s not welcome, so at the very least he’s not surprised when Adam flickers his focus from Ronan to the tiny hole-in-the-wall bistro that they’ve somehow ambled towards.

“I hear they’ve got an amazing mushroom and goat cheese panini.” Ronan’s nose wrinkles in pure distaste, making it so Adam dissolves into a fleeting peal of laughter; “There’s also two for one burritos down the block,” he offers instead.

“Much better,” Ronan readily agrees, clapping him on the shoulder and pretending it doesn’t strike him to the core on impact, “Good bargain hunting, Parrish.”

“I’ve sadly become a connoisseur of trashy fast food in the city,” he admits, a blush touching the tops of his cheeks.

“Ah, so you’re still hopeless at following a damn recipe then?” Ronan goads, forcing himself not to make a fuss out of Parrish buying his lunch for him — like he has to prove a point — and is only consoled by the sound of his speaking Spanish with such effortless gusto.

“I’m not a bad cook, Lynch, you just have mild sensibilities,” he reproves before tossing him his burrito and offering him the can of coke.

“Dude, you burnt a pancake so hard when we were fifteen that Hennessy chipped a tooth! Hell, I thought it was beef jerky!”

“That was one time,” Adam huffs darkly.

“Poor Clarke had to get a whole new set of dentures!”

“I did him a favor, the old ones kept falling out!” Adam defends, and Ronan begins to actually cackle, privately thinks that the cheer of the season might be getting to him.

“What the fuck ever.” He takes a huge bite, smirks at how Adam is clucking his tongue at the uncouth display, “Who’s the fucking prude now?”

“Will you ever not be a pain in the ass?” Adam asks tartly, pulls out a napkin from his back pocket to hand him.

“Man you don’t even know the half of it.” 

They head back to Cabeswater, and Ronan thinks he might be able to stand this tenuous peace they’ve got going for them.

.-

They’re practicing the first duet between Jason and Peter. 

It’s a playful number, composed of cheeky lyrics and barely there pecks, and Gansey’s also made it so that their hands are nearly always touching. Ronan would like to say that it’s fun, effortless even. But this is their fourth start in an hour and Gansey’s cut it short every try to comment on their stiff flirting or Ronan’s tense shoulders, or the way Adam’s fists are knotting into Ronan’s jacket over actually touching him when they kiss.

“It comes across too serious,” Gansey explains with a frown. “Right now it’s about keeping in tact the bubble you’ve built around one another, about being in love and ignoring all the rest of it.”

Ronan doesn’t miss the way Adam cuts a glance towards him at that, but he most certainly doesn’t let it show, stays focussed on Gansey’s directing instead.

“Good point,” Adam says blankly. “Should we go again?”

“I think you guys should just take a break,” Blue answers in lieu of Gansey, never taking her studying look off the pair of them. “We’ve been at this for a while, maybe a little time to breathe’ll help.”

“We’re fine,” Ronan says crossly.

“Perhaps Blue is right,” Gansey intones. “You guys have been trying at this for a while. Maybe we stop for five and come back with Ivy’s Birthday song? Then we can wrap up with this once more?”

Ronan bites his tongue from pointing out that the only reason Gansey’s going along with it is because of the dopey way he’s been gazing at Blue since the first rehearsal, just nods and agrees with everyone else instead.

.-

“You still like frappuccinos right?” Adam asks Ronan, almost stilted as he offers up the frothy concoction once the pair of them amble into the small cafe across the street from Cabeswater.

“Thanks,” Ronan replies in the same inflection, taking it gingerly.

The silence collapses between them again and neither knows how to break it. It’s been like this all last week and this one too, sticking to good-humored taunts and never venturing past safe memories and shared hatred of winter in New York. It’s fine — vapid and hollow and nothing compared to what it used to be — but it’s fine.

Admittedly idealistic, Ronan thought they would’ve maybe went off from where they left it, from when they were entangled in each others worlds in ways only the sort you call family would be. He reasons that it was a ridiculous expectation to have, not after over five years of nearly no contact. It makes complete sense that he and Adam wouldn’t be able to create that precise chemistry once more without even trying, even if once upon a time they were able to get in front of a camera every week and invade each other’s personal spaces with uncomplicated touches and choreographed wrestling that came across natural and even a few takes where Ricky would jokingly slam a kiss to Tristan’’s forehead after coming up with some sort of convoluted idea that would push the plot along for that week’s episode. 

This situation sucks but it makes sense. 

“’S cool that you’re still close with Hennessy, she’s great,” Adam says, trying for broke while peering down at his coffee.

“She’s family,” Ronan says with a noncommittal shrug, only picks up on the insinuation he didn’t mean to poise afterwards. He casts a contrite look Adam’s way but he’s already standing up from their table and not meeting his gaze.

“Reckon we should start on our way back? Don’t wanna get everyone behind schedule or else Helen’ll have a conniption.”

“Yeah,” Ronan sucks down the rest of his drink and tosses it into the trash. “Let’s go put on a show.”

They don’t talk the entire walk back. 

.-

Thursday night, the pair of them, along with Gansey and the rest of the cast, meander into a nearby pub for a drink after rehearsal, celebrating how no one stopped to refer back to the script all day, not even once.

“A toast!” Henry squawks, leaping up to stand on his chair like some sort of heathen. “To this show! And us! And Gansey’s khakis!”

“To Gansey’s khakis!” The remainder chorus before swigging down their drinks, bumbling and bombastic and boisterous as all get out before a drop of alcohol even hits their systems, save for Helen of course, who will always radiate the elegance of old European monarchs no matter what.

“It’s truly coming together! Isn’t it?” Gansey asks with an emphatic flailing to his arm — very nearly toppling over Tad’s drink while peering down hopefully at a bemused Blue, who in turn is dimpling up at Gansey with such unadulterated adoration that it’s frankly obscene.

“Called it,” Adam mouths over Gillian's shoulder towards Ronan.

“A blind castrated monk could’ve called that,” Ronan hisses back.

Adam shakes his head disapprovingly at him, but the humor crinkling his eyes gives him away. He’s fucking amused by Ronan and that’s still such an amazing feeling.

“It truly is, Richardman,” Henry crows, slinking an arm over Gansey’s shoulder and punctuating the point with a grossly slobbering kiss to his cheek. Gansey, the bastard, doesn’t seem to mind at all, only smiles wider.

“I’m truly thankful to have gathered such a marvelous set of actors. I feel even luckier to be given the opportunity to breathe a new life into this show with you all.”

“Your sincerity is giving me a rash, baby brother,” Helen retorts, stands up in one fluid motion before strutting towards the almond-eyed beauty who had been eye-fucking her all evening.

“To Helen getting some ass!” Henry cheers before everyone else echoes him once again.

“Oh my, that’s my sister,” Gansey says, borderline horrified. only finding solace by resting his head on Blue’s chest, the gross freaks.

Ronan’s surprised that when he looks away from them, he’s staring into Adam’s alert gaze, sizing him up in a way that makes it feel like something strange is squirming beneath Ronan’s skin. He remembers the first time he was consciously aware that it was Adam evoking the sensation, spurred on by the ridiculous flicker of hope that it was Adam’s intention to make him feel that sort of way on purpose.

.-

~8 Years Ago~

“You’re fifteen with your fucking permit,” Ronan exclaims very nearly affronted. “You fucking built that ancient ass Mustang with your own two hands! You fixed Gansey’s Camaro like the first time you met him in barely five minutes!”

“Your point?” Adam asks, sounding bored while lying on the bench outside Monmouth. It’s a hot Henrietta night, cicadas chirping and the dying sunlight from above caressing Adam’s elegant features so tenderly that it leaves Ronan fucking breathless.

It’s a Friday; Fridays almost always run late on account of it being the day they shoot a good chunk of the scenes for the episode premiering the following week. Hennessy and Adam’s latest love interest — this time a girl named Essence who wears strawberry lip gloss and who listens to the Smiths — were filming a conversation about Celeste and Ricky’s seemingly perfect romance. This designated Adam and Ronan to waiting until it was their turn on the mill, and Ronan will take it to the grave that these small respites just for the pair of them have always been his favorite part of each Friday.

“How the fuck don’t you know how to drive stick!” 

“Never bothered to learn,” Adam says defensively.

“Don’t even front, runt. Your freaky, Good Will Hunting mind picks up shit like how normal folks shop for groceries! Like who the fuck teaches themselves how to play the guitar in less than a week?”

“Plenty of people, Ronan,” Adam sighs, long suffering and desperately trying to divert the attention away from him like he always does. 

“Modesty is an ugly fucking color on you Parrish,” Ronan says, offended on his behalf.

“Shucks, you sure know how to sweet talk a fella’, Lynch,” Adam says through a yawn, forever exhausted and forever oblivious to how much of an effect his words have on him. Sometimes Ronan is convinced that Adam knows about the feelings he so foolishly harbors, and others he thinks that he’s as oblivious as Gansey about the whole ordeal. Ronan isn’t quite sure which he prefers.

Swallowing down the tension that was unwittingly brought on and shaking off the pitiful hope burrowing itself in his bones, Ronan stands up, pulls Adam along with him while making his track to the BMW.

“C’mon Parrish, I’ll teach you,” he offers, impervious to the refusal that Adam is surely about to shoot his way, “It’ll probably be another hour or two ‘til the girls are done.”

“No way,” Adam says, face gone pale. “Your dad will have a freak out! Isn’t this like his pride and joy?”

“What the fuck ever, Niall will probably give a boring ass lecture on responsibility or some shit and then what? Ground me for a week?” Ronan said, pushing Adam towards the driver’s side door while he slipped into the passenger’s seat.

Adam’s face adopts that blank, inscrutable expression that he gets whenever he’s trying to figure out a situation, and Ronan just lets him work through it.

“Your dad — he wouldn’t wig? Wouldn’t even bother taking you to task if he finds out?”

Ronan’s brows furrow, confused as to why he’s so concerned about Niall’s feelings, of all things.

“Oy, he’ll give me a tongue lashing probably, maybe make me do Declan’s chores for like a bit,” Ronan says nonchalantly. “But that’s only if we get caught, so just don’t be shitty at this, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Another beat passes before Adam climbs in and takes the wheel, still looking a bit confused by the whole ordeal.

“You know not being shit at this includes not barfing on the leather interior, Parrish.”

“Bite me, Lynch,” Adam gripes, finally starting to look like he’s come back into himself. “Well, won’t you go on with it, already? Teach me and revel in how it’s the only time you’ll probably ever know something I don’t.” 

“You are such a fucking bastard.”

Adam laughs, and it’s a sound Ronan would like to hear on a loop for an eon. It’s something golden and wonderful and rang out with something akin to the splendor of the Barns every time Ronan returned. It felt like a home Ronan could cocoon himself within. Something real. Something vivid, something tangible. Like it could be something Ronan could have for forever if only he held on tight.

~*~

Henry demands they play strip poker in public, and Adam breaks the stalemate between him and Ronan by turning his attention to shout out an emphatic, “Hell no!” 

“Spoil sport.” Henry pouts and Tad vigorously agrees.

.-

It’s past midnight when Gansey finally reckons that they should all probably get back home, considering tomorrow’s still set for a full day of rehearsal and the following week will be cut short in accordance with the holiday.

Ronan admits that he feels something like elation when Adam nudges his shoulder with his own as they shuffle out into the biting cold.

“You tired?” he asks.

“Nah,” Ronan says, probably failing completely at trying to beat down the grin threatening to break his face in half, spurred on by the alcohol in his bloodstream and the shameless way they’ve been glancing at one another all night long. “What did you have in mind?”

Adam only shrugs. “Just not ready to call it a night, I suppose.”

Buoyed by their drinks (a gin martini for Adam and Guinness for Ronan), the pair of them split up from the rest, opting to walk home over trying to catch the subway — still in one another’s orbit and still trading laughter-cloaked barbs like tomorrow would never come — carving out their very own slice of eternity.

.-

“I haven’t seen Gansey that drunk since last year’s Golden Globes afterparty when he was stuck escorting that chick from that awful Netflix show,” Adam practically guffaws, the cascading snowflakes from above turning his cheeks a fetching pink. The holiday lights pan across the soft lines and flat planes of his face, giving him this sort of otherworldly, ethereal glow. It’s not the first time tonight that Ronan wants to lean forwards and press his lips against Adam’s own.

“He’s gonna fucking hate himself in the morning,” Ronan says instead, trying his best to ignore how Adam’s just staring at him like there’s nothing else warranting his attention, as though Ronan was someone worth all the moments he could give; a creature that enraptured without effort, something splendid to the core. Adam is gazing at him how Ronan constantly wishes he would.

“God help us all,” Adam says, eyeing an abrasive display of Jesus Christ wishing everyone a Merry Christmas occupying one of the storefronts. “Think they’re trying to get a point across?” he asks Ronan once it actually begins to sing when they pass, like something demonic.

“They’re probably the type to think Jesus was a white boy,” Ronan answers wryly.

“Astute analysis, Lynch.” Adam smiles at him, bright and beautiful and there. “Speaking of which, I forgot how red your pale ass gets in the cold.”

“Oy! I take that as a fucking affront, Parrish!” Ronan pretends to fume, feels his heart twist up fiercely when Adam’s mittened hand interlocks into his own, leading him into a cozy cafe down the street that’s somehow, by the grace of God, still open this late.

“We’ll warm up here before continuing on, yeah? I’d rather not have to deal with you getting frostbite and dying on the streets.”

“Too much trouble for you, darling?” Ronan snorts derisively.

“Yeah, well I’d have to probably, like, drag your body in Saran wrap for blocks on end, because I’m not some sort of monster who’d just leave you to be eaten by the dogs,” Adam explains, taking a seat while shaking out his hair after freeing it from his hat, looking like some sort of Herbal Essences advert, the bastard.

“A saint to rival Teresa, truly.”

“But then people will start eyeing me like I’m Dexter or some shit,” Adam sighs, faux aggrieved, “and I can’t have that public image out there right now, man, not with the show coming out and all.”

“I’m so sorry I potentially caused such an inconvenience,” Ronan snorts. 

“’S fine, I mean once they figure out it’s a dick like you, I’m sure it wouldn’t be an issue,” Adam shrugs, dodging the punch Ronan aims to his arm. “Testy, testy,” He clucks with a shake of his head.

“You are the fucking worst,” Ronan tells him with feeling, pulls out his wallet to buy them a couple of the peppermint hot chocolates being advertised. “Man, you bought me coffee this morning, don’t even start,” he reproves once Adam begins to decline.

For a second Adam stills, but then his smile is restored and he’s taking a sip and it all feels so easy.

Why the fuck is it so easy?

.-

Miraculously, they make it to Adam’s apartment in one piece, cutting through the garage to get upstairs so Ronan can call a cab instead of continuing to walk the dozen or so blocks to his place.

“Your neighbors are swanky fucks, Parrish,” Ronan tells him as he eyes the rows of G-Wagens, Audis, and BMWs— even spots a Rolls Royce or two. “Where’s the Mustang?”

“Traded her in,” Adam says, and Ronan pretends not to feel too put out at that, shakes off the memories of them working side by side on that hunk of junk for days and months and even years on end when they had first met one another.

“No shit?” Ronan says instead.

“Look what I got for her,” Adam tells him, still smiling at Ronan in such a remarkable way that all the tension from the Mustang’s disappearance melts away.

He guides him through the labyrinth of luxury cars to stop in front of a sleek, rough and ready looking motorbike. It’s black with a silver and green trim, gleaming in the pale light like something out of Ronan’s dreams.

“Get out of fucking town,” he marvels, running a hand gingerly over its shiny exterior, totally disbelieving. “This is yours?”

“Didn’t need a car in the city, so I thought I might as well be a little reckless, get something fun.” Ronan glances up to find Adam impossibly close, near enough to parse out all the shades of blue dancing in his almost violet eyes, spots the humor there too.

Ronan swallows down the thickness in his throat. 

“Never thought I’d see the day that you of all people actually treat yourself,” Ronan tells him, hates the picture painting itself in his mind’s eye of Adam in a leather jacket and blue jeans, racing down the countryside upstate like a 1950s heartthrob. 

Adam’s smile goes sharp as he steps even closer, unwittingly making it so Ronan’s heart thuds out an uneven staccato.

“You want to take a spin on her?” he asks, voice low and tinged with a delicious sort of rasp. Fucking Christ, life truly isn’t fair.

“I’ve never ridden,” Ronan admits, doesn’t look away from Adam’s thin lips, studies how one corner of his mouth always lifts upwards before the other whenever he graces the public with one of his real smiles, elastic and true.

“Well, I owe you a lesson,” Adam tells him with a wink, sly as all get-out without even trying. Ronan chides himself to keep it in his pants before taking him up on the offer and mounts the cycle as Adam instructed. 

“Good,” he says before following suit, a line of heat pressed against Ronan. “Now careful with the throttle, she’s a temperamental little fuck so it’s easy to rev the engine.” Adam clamps a hand over Ronan’s own, an indescribable shock spreading from the tips of Ronan’s fingers down to his very toes at the contact. 

“Course your ass would get the defective bike, Parrish, can’t have anything easy,” Ronan jibes, willing himself to stay still.

“Easy’s boring,” Adam retorts, hot tendrils of breath skirting across the naked nape of Ronan’s neck, voice reverberating in the silence and everything becoming a sensory overload all at once. Ronan’s skin is suddenly feeling too tight against his bones and his chest is contracting too suddenly and the breath is snatched right out of his lungs the moment he turns around enough to lock his pale eyes into Adam’s own; an electricity like nothing else charging in the space between them.

“I didn’t know you got a tattoo,” Adam finally says out loud, hesitant to shatter the silence that’s settled between them. “I mean besides the RW, obviously I knew that one.” His voice begins to taper off, mouth curved into a frown. “But I didn’t know you got another one.”

“It’s been like five years, Parrish,” Ronan blurts out, surprised at the heat there but feeling vindicated by the level of shock painted across Adam’s open face in response. “There’s a bunch of shit you don’t know, a bunch of shit you outright ignored.”

Ronan stands up now, simply unable to be so close to the intoxicating presence of him, not now, not when he’s so rightfully furious. He can’t just sit there and map out the freckles on his face, or gaze at his thin lips with yearning. He can’t take in the scent of sunlight and sandalwood that’s always clung onto Adam’s very skin, so familiar but made even more so with the gasoline in the air.

“You’re talking about me not making it to Niall’s funeral,” Adam says, frank and unhesitant.

“Don’t say you couldn’t make it to my fucking father’s funeral like it’s one of Taylor Swift’s Fourth of July parties!” Ronan barks.

“I don’t go to those, either.” Adam goes for broke, chancing a smile at him, but Ronan’s not letting up on his frustration, not now, not after it’s finally all out there.

“He died and you sent a fucking crappy ass bouquet of flowers, and some passive ass note, like you didn’t even know him.” Something inside of Ronan finally cracks when he sees the way Adam’s apathy melts from his face, and he’s looking at the boy who helped him egg the house of the teacher that called Matthew stupid. The boy who always kept Ronan on his toes. The boy who always looked into Ronan’s eyes like he could read a thousand stories within them. And it hurts even more.

“I didn’t know what to do or what to say,” Adam tells him, climbing off the motorcycle and stepping closer, arms wrapped against his chest like he’s staving off a fight.

“Not that, Parrish! Not that!” Ronan’s voice echoes in the abandoned car lot, and it’s still freezing in here, but he can’t let this go, refuses to even move from this spot.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Ronan knows he’s being genuine, can hear the tremor in his voice. Can see it in the dent between his brows and the understanding in his eyes, but it’s not enough. Ronan’s afraid that nothing will be enough between them, not ever again.

“Parrish, you just up and left, halfway through the season. You didn’t even tell any of us, not me or Hennessy or my brother or anyone! You were just there one week and the next you were being written off under your behest.”

“I know,” Adam stance becomes more rigid, his chin tipped high, defiant. “I just couldn’t stay any longer, Ronan, not once I finally turned eighteen. I just couldn’t do it.”

“What? Working with me was such a fucking chore? Or was it beyond that? Was being stuck with me as a friend a fucking burden? Huh?” Ronan’s hands start shaking now, voice wavering like he were a fucking dying patient on Grey’s Anatomy. He doesn’t dare bring up the third option, the question if Adam had just gotten sick of the heavy glances by Ronan, hadn’t wanted anything to do with him once he inevitably traced the clues and figured out the summation. Once he’d figured out the pathetic longing Ronan had held.

“’S not that Lynch, you fucking know it’s not that,” Adam charges, his pallor finally getting some color back into it.

“Then what the fuck is it! Why did you go? Why didn’t you even bother keeping in touch? Why won’t you look at me straight on, even now?” Ronan yells, volleying him a glare, but is only met by a sudden exhaustion falling over Adam, which totally is not fair.

“It’s complicated, Lynch,” he says, still so quiet. Screaming has never been Adam’s style, just bored observations and a menacingly flat tone if he’s especially mad. Ronan, brought up in a household full of loud noises and even louder emotions, used to think that proved how very unconcerned Adam was by it all, by the world playing out around him, that he was unaffected by anything. Throughout the years, Ronan’s come to realize that it’s quite the opposite, that Adam feels and bleeds and loves more than any other, but he’s just so discreet about it, preferring a prosaic outlook over anything else.

“Uncomplicate it, then!”

A beat passes between them and it feels like the ending to a story Ronan didn’t even realize was still being told.

“Uh-huh.” He breathes out, lets the tension melt out of him completely. “I thought so.”

“Ronan, listen,” Adam says, this edge of pleading, but Ronan, maybe for the first time ever, steps away when Adam tries coming closer, raises a hand between them to silence him.

“It’s whatever, Parrish.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Adam asks, long arms falling limply to his sides now.

“Declan got married to Jordan, Hennessy’s sister,” Ronan says instead of answering, isn’t sure where the non-sequitur came from but wanting to say it all the same. Wants Adam to know bits of what he’s missed even if he’s sure he doesn’t care. Maybe never cared. “They have a kid now, and he’s a fucking hellion.” Ronan can’t help but smile when thinking of Alexander, but knows it’s a sad, pitiful thing.

“Ronan,” Adam starts again, this time getting close enough that the cold tip of his pinky stretches out to touch the back of Ronan’s hand, eyes peering into one another.

“Ma’s still teaching art classes at the college, but now she wants to start fostering some kids too.” Ronan keeps speaking, doesn’t let himself get lost in Adam, lets go of him bit by bit. “’s probably because Matty’s finally graduated, took him an extra year but he got there.” 

“Ronan.”

“You’ve missed so much and you don’t even care,” Ronan says, his words sharp as a knife. “So you know what Adam, just whatever.”

With one last inhale, Ronan pivots around and strolls out the garage, pretends that he thinks it’s the right decision, pretends he doesn’t feel gutted, pretends that he’s finally cut himself free.

God damn it, he should be a lot fucking better at pretending if he’s supposed to be some sort of great actor.

.-

Rehearsals play out in the same ways they had before their tipsy induced spat outside Adam’s apartment, but instead of sharing an afternoon coffee they stay sequestered apart, and Ronan could admit that there’s a frost between them now— something new and strange and kind of tremulous in comparison to both their days on Ricky’s World and the perfunctory platitudes they’ve been exchanging these last couple weeks. 

Ronan hates it but he doesn’t know how to surmount these issues, doesn’t know if he even wants to. The idea of only having fragments of Adam to call his own over him in his entirety is just a huge fucking no go.

“That was painful to watch,” Hennessy, as delightfully blunt as ever, informs Ronan that Friday evening after rehearsal in her Soho loft, having tagged along the entire day at Ronan’s behest. 

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he postures, hands her the pair of scissors to cut the Santa Claus wrapping paper she’s using for her gifts this year.

“The duet after the rave scene?” Hennessy needles, brows furrowed and hand on her hip. “You guys weren’t even following the blocking Gansey demonstrated! Hell, you guys were barely looking at one another.” 

“You’re being dramatic,” Ronan tells her, starfishing himself atop her mattress with a new slice of pizza in his grasp. 

“Don’t front with me, Lynch,” Hennessy smacks him with a bottle of makeup remover off her nightstand, glaring all the while. “I grew up with the pair of you, I know when things are off between you dumbasses. And today was so beyond off, Ronan!”

“It’s whatever,” Ronan says, starting to feel really and truly frustrated over the whole ordeal.

“Hey! Don’t think you can just use that line on me, Lynch! Now explain. I thought you guys were in some sort of stalemate? What happened?”

“Nothing happened, Brandy,” Ronan tells her, sitting up so that they’re face to face. “Nothing had to happen. I just got sick of faking it.”

“Faking what?” she asks, softer now.

“All of it! Faking that we’re still somehow friends, that he isn’t— That he didn’t—“ Ronan stutters to a halt, averts his gaze onto a point over her head. “I don’t lie, Hennessy, you know that. This all just started feeling like one huge show.” He doesn’t bring up how the falsehoods started to feel like they were swallowing him whole, doesn’t think it’s necessary to admit the feelings churning within him, knows that she just gets it.

The skin around Hennessy’s eyes goes tight, and her mouth presses into a straight line while she moves to clamp her hand over his own. 

“You’ve always lied when it came to him,” she says, point blank. She says it without any pomp, or humor, just the truth that Ronan had studiously dodged all these years.

“I know,” he retorts in the same inflection.

And Ronan’s back to sitting in this exact position, eight years before. Back to Hennessy’s girlhood bedroom and back to pettily hating Adam as he asked out a girl through the phone and back to depending on her as some sort of emotional wall. And Ronan hates the past, hates it so fucking much. So much that some days it burns within him.

“I’m so sorry, Ro,” she says, sad and helpless all at once.

“I’m looking forward, Hennessy, that’s all there is,” he tells her instead of acknowledging the meaning behind her words.

“You’ve got me, Ronan. I’m here, too.” She smiles right then, a quick and effulgent thing. There’s absolutely no doubt in Ronan’s mind that Hennessy could take a bite out of the world if she so wished, and he’s never been so thankful to call her his best friend.

“What the fuck ever, Brandy,” he says instead of admitting that, and goes on to berate her on how his gift better be wrapped in much more badass patterns. 

“You’re lucky if you get a paper bag to hide that ugly mug,” she counters with a snort, and Ronan is starting to believe he made the right decision after all. 

No more lies.

.-

Adam’s shirtless.

He’s standing in front of Ronan, both his hands clamped around one of Ronan’s own, with his bare upper half — all tanned skin, and taut muscles, and freckles dancing over his shoulders — splattered with glitter that shines beneath the overhead light. His bright eyes are boring into Ronan’s pale ones and it takes all Ronan has not to get lost in them, to stay grounded, stay competent, stay here.

“We can’t go on forever this way,” Adam sings in a voice that rattles, always having been brilliant at radiating emotion for a crowd even if it’s his cool exterior that drives the fans towards him in drones.

“All this forever, can’t you live for today?” Ronan replies in his smooth tenor, steadier even when he grabs tight to Adam’s hands, tries showing Jason’s desperate need to hold onto Peter, recognizes the feeling no matter how harshly he’s trying to stave it off. He’s never been good at separating his work from his private affairs, not like Adam, Adam who could compartmentalize his life so severely that nothing even threatens to overlap.

“We have to grow up,” Adam steps closer, their noses could scrape against each other with the slightest movement, though he doesn’t take that extra step. He never takes that extra step, and Ronan needs to hang onto that truth like a lifeline. “There’s so much more to love.”

“It’s best kept secret.”

“Best kept secret,” Adam repeats before they both sing it once more in unison.

“You’re great,” Adam tells him once the music stops, soft enough so that it’s only Ronan who hears. “You’re always great, Ro.”

By the grace of God Ronan doesn’t have to even grapple with how to respond because a moment later Helen’s shrill voice is speaking the exact opposite.

“What the holy hell was that!” she shrieks, standing up beside a dejected-looking Gansey, and in front of the rest of the cast who are sporting various expressions of confusion tinged with disappointment. “Weren’t you two supposed to be costars once?”

“Who got your panties in a bunch?” Ronan asks her, grimacing.

“Lynch, I am not playing around!” Helen bellows, only to be settled by Gansey’s hand on her shoulder as he also gets up. 

“What my sister is trying to get across is that, well, erm—” Gansey rubs his hands together, looking beyond nervous as he ducks his head. “Well, that was a bit stiff?”

“Hah,” Helen scoffs. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

“I don’t understand,” Adam says, fair brows furrowed and lips pinched, “I thought we were on key.”

“It’s not always about just being technically perfect, Adam,” Helen says, strutting towards them with her high pony lashing around like a whip. “It’s about the emotion! The chemistry! The believability that you guys are tragically in love.”

Ronan feels his cheeks redden, but plays it off by jutting his chin the other way. 

“You’re being ridiculous, we just did that. The crowds are gonna eat it up.”

“No, no you really didn’t,” Blue says from where she’s trying to braid chunks of Henry’s hair. “That was as painfully awkward as Cats the movie. And I still have nightmares about those demons.” 

“Don’t we all,” Gillian agrees.

“I thought that this would be easier considering your history of working with one another on Ricky’s World,” Gansey explains, totally glum.

“The amount of raunchy fanart and fanfics you guys inspired as Ricky and Tristan is truly a feat,” Henry tacks on, as utterly unhelpful as ever. “But this? This was an affront to every love story ever told.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad,” Ronan argues.

“We can do better,” Adam pacifies.

The glance they share right then is equal parts perplexed and frustrated at the other.

“We’re off for the next two weeks, and then we only have one more until the show is set to premier in January,” Helen despairs, flattening the back of her hand to her forehead as if she were truly on some sort of melodrama. “You guys have no time to fix it! We’re ruined! It’s over! We’re gonna be shut down and casted off like some worthless flops! Like we're Spider-Man the musical!”

“Bite your fucking tongue,” Henry gasps, overdramatic as hell.

“Putting Helen’s theatrics to the side, I must admit I am a tad worried,” Gansey tells them, which is as good as a proper curse out by any other person, “It’s been this way all week.”

“We can do better,” Adam says again, this time with more heat behind his words.

"I don't know how you could!” Helen contends, this side of frantic. “You can’t just pull chemistry out of thin air, Adam. Either you have it or you don’t.”

“We have it,” he tells her waspishly, muscles rigid and body tense.

His chest contracting, Ronan turns his attention towards Adam, still impossibly, maddeningly, close. 

“Do we?” he asks quietly, just loud enough that it flutters against Adam’s ear, making his eyes flash molten and his lips flatten to a tight line.

“Course we do.”

“You guys aren’t showing it,” Gillian tells them timidly. “There’s an uneasiness between you both, an unfamiliarity."

"Like you guys are scared to even breathe around one another,” Henry deadpans.

“So how do you all think we should solve this?” Gansey asks, obviously beginning to feel overwhelmed by the situation.

"I've got an idea," Blue crows, leaping up from her seat and smirking at Adam with a predatory leer. 

“Blue,” Adam starts, warningly, but she only waves him off, uncaring.

“Instead of spending the next week and a half off, why don't they spend the holidays together?”

“What do you mean, maggot?” Ronan asks caustically.

“Exactly what I said, Lynch,” she replies smoothly. “Spending more time apart will obviously just pile onto this frigid thing you guys have got going for you, so why don’t you guys spend some one on one time before the next rehearsal.”

“How would that even work?” Adam asks shrewdly, looking like he’s trying to skewer her alive with only the power of his mind.

“Easy,” she says, obviously enjoying the hell out of this. “Christmas with Lynch, and then the pair of you could come to Fox Way for the New Year! By then Orla will have broken up with her latest fling so there’ll be an open room for you and everything.”

Ronan’s about to vehemently disagree with this plan that’s seemingly been pulled out his worst nightmare by Satan himself, but then, for the first time all day, Gansey looks up at them, utterly hopeful.

This time when Ronan and Adam exchange a glance, the feeling’s tacit agreement that’s embedded into their gazes.

.-

“Blue’s a fucking menace,” Adam tells Ronan afterwards, cornering him by the same cafe where they used to share a mid afternoon espresso shot. “She gets ideas in her head and refuses to let go of them; thinks she’s some sort of genius or some shit.”

Ronan only cocks a brow at him, passive as he orders himself a caramel frap and Adam his typical almond milk latte, regimented in literally every part of his existence. 

“Did you just want to accost me with complaints about the Missus?” Ronan asks him blithely.

“Okay first off, fucking gross,” Adam literally shakes at the thought. “Blue is like my sister.”

“You’re from bumfuck nowhere in Virginia, I dunno what you southerners do with your sisters.”

“You’re from the same damn foothills, you crass fuck.”

“So you’re telling me you guys have never smashed?” Ronan prods, needs as much ammunition as he can get against himself to be warded off from him permanently. Adam’s face is going brighter by the second, giving him away, and Ronan studiously pretends he doesn’t find it attractive.

“It was once, asshole! Like years ago! We were bored and drunk off tequila!”

“Knew it,” Ronan sniffs.

“How the fuck do you do that, just know shit about me without my permission?” Adam seethes, uninhibited with the anger in his gaze. Ronan feels far too much like an experiment Adam’s already created a hypothesis for, and he doesn’t like it at all.

“You’re not that hard to read, Science Boy.”

“For everyone else I am,” Adam says, unguarded and honest.

Ronan doesn’t dare poke at the bear hibernating in that phrase, only shrugs one shoulder and passes along his drink.

Future from here on out, damn it.

“Look Parrish, if you didn’t come here to divulge your romantic woes—“

“God damn it, can you stop sounding like Gansey of all people,” Adam interrupts, long legs easily falling into step with Ronan’s hurried strides. He in turn flips Adam off with a good, “kiss my ass,” thrown in for good measure.

“Then why the hell are you here babbling nonsense?”

“It wouldn’t be nonsense if you had just let me finish,” Adam needles sulkily, shutters back when they walk through the double doors and the cold chill lashes against his face. Adam’s not built for the winter months. He’s cut from sunlight and supernovas and the lapping waves against the sandy shores, strung together by the sound of chirping cicadas and the static before a thunderstorm. In the cold he’s tawny curls spilling over pale skin, looking almost ethereal — like from those portraits of God’s Angels in the heavens that Niall used to show them on their frequent visits to the Whitney whenever they were in the city. It’s so contrary from his deep tan and tawny locks and shimmering eyes that come out in the warmth. Ronan likes him either way if he’s being honest, finds him beautiful through every layer.

“Fine, then finish, Parrish,” Ronan says, more derisive than he intends but he keeps falling into this pesky habit of tracing out the topography of him, of Adam’s freckles and the slight curve to his thin lips and marveling at that one tiny mole right on the side of his neck. He’s always frustrated when he’s reminded that he’s only allowed to do so with his eyes and never with his lips. 

Adam’s glaring at him with such pure exhaustion that it’s almost worse than remembering that they’ll only ever be referred to as boyfriends in between the lines of a script. They’re friends, not even good ones at that. They’d never be anything more, he knows that now, so he consciously decides to stop being such a godforsaken prick and offers Adam an apologetic curve of the mouth. Diffident enough to temper down Adam’s frustration. 

“You don’t have to come.”

“Excuse me?” Ronan was not expecting that, being revoked his invitation before an hour’s passed since it had been given in the first place.

“Like I said,” Adam continues to press, clings onto the cuff of Ronan’s jacket when the light flashes green, probably remembering how little Ronan paid attention to details like that when they were wandering the DC streets while shooting on location for Ricky’s World. “Blue is a complete menace, and she just threw that on you out of fucking nowhere. Just give me the word and I’ll text Gansey right now that we’re not gonna do it. It’s not like he can make us, or whatever. We can just practice separately and then go on from there. I don’t want you to just be rammed into something you’re not comfortable with, especially not for some show that really isn’t such a huge deal.”

This is kind of unnerving. The rambling, Ronan means. He’s never known an Adam who doesn’t have his phrases clipped out and intent double checked at least like two minutes before he says them. Adam is precise, methodical. This is the exact opposite of that. This is stammering words and consonants crashing into one another. This is nerves. 

Adam is nervous, and he’s nervous because of Ronan. He can see that now, flustered speech withstanding. he can see it in the flush spread across his cheekbones and the way he’s worrying on his bottom lip. Can see it in how he’s begun rubbing his hands together, a tell from when they were kids.

Adam is nervous and Ronan feels so wrong footed over the whole ordeal. 

“Parrish, it’s fine,” he tells him, hoping it comes out as evenly as he meant it.

“Fine,” Adam repeats, dent between his brows. He looks hopelessly bewildered.

“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s for the show,” Ronan says, punctuating the point with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s not like we have to actually be friends or whatever during the break, just stand each other enough till it’s all over.”

“Oh.” Adam falters to a stop and Ronan turns around in time to catch the flurry of contradicting emotions splayed out so openly on a face Ronan once knew better than the back of his own hand. Confusion that melts into hurt, followed by embarrassment and frustration and irritation too. Ultimately settling back to a blank, detached sort of indifference. He looks like those remote angels from those portraits all over again, but Ronan ignores completely the flinch to his fingers, ignores the wanting thud in his chest, reminds himself that touching doesn’t make him any more real.

“So we’re on the same page then,” Adam intones, sounding like a blown out candle. Ronan wonders which step he had apparently missed.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Alright, I’ll text you about the holiday.” Adam walks away, because he’s always the one who goes. Ronan stays still, because he never leaves. And suddenly it feels like there are chasms that are dividing them, ones filled with words that slink through his insides and clack against Ronan’s teeth. Words that want to just be spoken out loud, words that threaten to tear through him. 

Words that never spill out.

“Sure, Parrish. That sounds good,” Ronan says in his wake, left watching Adam’s pale head drifting further and further away into the distance. 

He feels cold all over.

.-

Niall used to call The Barns the Lynch palace, the family’s oasis from the swarms of people and paparazzi and pollution that clogged the city. It’s where Ronan and his brothers were brought up, their days painted with laughter and scraped knees and games only the three of them knew. Aurora was always there to play along, and Niall spent all his days on either side of the country or right there besides them, indulgent and effulgent and alive — until of course he wasn’t. Until some irresponsible drunkard and the ice coded streets had taken him away and nothing felt right anymore. 

Standing here now, in the expansive kitchen Aurora had insisted upon while they were building their home — where Ronan can hear all the going ons of his family around him — things are finally starting to feel like they could be whole once more. But of course that’s right when his traitorous mind starts to conjure up images of Adam fucking Parrish and everything feels off kilter all over again.

“What time is he flying in?” Aurora asks Ronan distractedly as she sets out the gingerbread house supplies for Alexander to decorate with.

“Witchcraft,” Ronan harrumphs, as he licks off the batter from the spatula and takes a seat on one of the stools lining the counter. There’s a miniature tree in the corner that’s supposed to hold them off till they get to actually set up the main one in the living room on Christmas Eve. It’s a tradition Niall started, one that they all went along with, because of course they did. Of course they do.

“Mother's intuition.” She pinches his cheek before grabbing the utensil from him to wash off. “So, arrival time?”

“Dunno, he said this afternoon,” Ronan blithely tells her, making the ends of her mouth turn down disapprovingly. 

“How are we supposed to make it to the airport in time, Ronan?”

“We’re not going to the airport, Ma,” Ronan sniffs, getting up to help her dry. “He said that he’ll just be catching a cab over here.”

“That’s not very hospitable,” she says disapprovingly.

“It’s just business Ma, it’s not like he’s an actual guest.” 

Yikes, Ronan did not know her nostrils could flare like that, it’s all levels of terrifying if anyone were to ask him.

“None of this malarkey once Adam gets here, Ronan,” she scolds, shoving the wet bowl into his chest. “Adam is family, you boys grew up together. Now, I don’t care what sort of falling out you may have had, that doesn’t change. Got it?”

Ronan is not, in fact, an insane man, so he just nods, conceding, and finishes the chore at hand. 

“He didn’t even give a reason,” Ronan finally says out loud once the silence becomes too palpable. “We didn't even have an actual falling out Ma, it just frizzled. Not even. It just stopped.”

“Oh, love.” She clicks her tongue, pushing a rebellious curl from his forehead and getting on her toes to press a kiss there instead. “Sometimes we’re so blinded by our own hurt, that we never look past it, so the pieces of someone else’s puzzle just stay invisible to us until we force ourselves to actually spot the obvious.”

Frowning, Ronan pins her with a one-eyed squint.

“Why do I feel like you know more than you’re letting on, Ma?” he asks accusingly.

“Because you know that you have a brilliant mother,” she beams, smoothly evading the question before drying her hands, both of them stilling once hearing the tell tale wrapping against the front door.

“Chin up and manners out front,” she chides softly before pivoting around on her heels, Ronan close behind.

.-

The moment they open the door to a shivering and windswept Adam, Aurora gathers him into her arms and waves Ronan to collect his lovage— AKA a stuffed to the brim duffle bag.

“It’s nice getting to see you Mam,” Adam greets to Aurora, never even looking Ronan’s way, and well if that’s how they’re going to be playing it then fucking fine, Ronan is perfectly alright with that.

“Nonsense dear, you call me Aurora,” she chastises with a warm grin. “I’m about done with dinner and you still look like you’ve missed a few dozen of those, so why doesn’t Ronan show you upstairs to Declan’s old room while I finish up and call everyone over?”

Adam’s flushed while he agrees, and Ronan doesn’t find it attractive how nervous he still gets in front of his ma, not at all.

“C’mon,” he instructs briskly, jutting his chin to the staircase. “’S that way.”

Adam still doesn’t look at him, eyes cast downwards while he nods and follows suit. The tautness wound between them is somehow even more excruciating than it was on set. Maybe it’s because they’re here, the Barns. A place Ronan’s always seen as splendid, a place where they grew up together.

.-

~9 Years Ago~

“Your house is huge,” Adam marvels as he and Ronan race upstairs to collect a lighter for the smoke bombs and sparklers that Niall had piled on one of the tables alongside the star printed plates and striped napkins.

The Lynches host a huge cookout every Fourth of July in the Barns and this is the first one in nearly three years of working together that Adam’s parents had accepted the invitation. It’s downright fucking exciting if anyone were to ask Ronan, and he doesn’t want to waste any time of having him here looking for a damn lighter.

“’S not our house anymore Parrish, just where we spend Christmas and sometimes summer if we’re not back in Ireland,” Ronan corrects blithely, begins rifling through some of the kitchen drawers.

“Still pretty cool, prick,” Adam sniffs. He’s trying out this new thing with his hair, sweeping the locks to one side of his forehead instead of letting them just spill as they please. Ronan likes it, but to be fair he doubts that there’s anything Adam could do that Ronan wouldn’t like so much that his knees go weak.

“You should’ve come yesterday,” Ronan tells him. "Dad made us this huge bonfire and let us make s’mores on it and I dared Hennessy to burn one of Declan’s shoes! It was so funny!” Ronan says, enthused when he finally finds a couple stuffed in an old clay pot Matthew had made in the first grade.

Adam shrugs, almost abashed looking. “Birthdays are for family.”

Ronan eyes him right then, confused as all get out.

“I thought we were family?” 

There are a thousand emotions pulling at Adam’s features, ones that Ronan can’t even hope to discern, but they finally land on a painfully vulnerable expression, one with something like hope glittering in his eyes.

“Well besides, if I were there I would’ve told you guys to cut it out,” Adam says measuredly, not giving away any sort of emotion on either end of the spectrum, and for the millionth time Ronan wonders if he’ll ever be able to understand all of the layers to Adam.

“Spoilsport.”

“You are such a prick to him,” Adam complains.

“Why do you care? What? You got a crush on Declan?”

Adam tosses him a one armed shrug with the most shit eating grin Ronan’s ever seen splayed out on his face. “I mean, he is hot.”

A searing ball of emotions coils deep in Ronan’s gut, a concoction of betrayal and disgust and pure jealousy. It only begins to unfurl when Adam’s eyes crinkle and he’s in near hysterics with how much he’s cackling.

“Fucking prick.”

“You should’ve seen the look on your face!” Adam guffaws, literally moves to grab his sides.

“I’m gonna spit in your burger,” Ronan says judiciously, begins to walk back outdoors, and is only stopped by Adam’s loose grip encircling his wrist. 

“Wait, okay, okay,” he tamps down his amusement, breathes in deep. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I got you a gift,” Adam placates, pulls out the small box from his pocket and thrusts it into a confused looking Ronan’s grasp.

“Dude, you got how birthdays work mixed up. I’m supposed to get your nasty ass a gift.”

Adam cuffs him on the back of the head crossly before gesturing for Ronan to just open it already, so he does just that.

“Oh,” it’s Ronan’s turn to marvel, staring wide eyed at the miniature car in his palm.

“It’s the same model as the Mustang you’re helping me fix up,” Adam explains, and woah. Ronan hadn’t noticed how close he’d come. He steels his nerves when Adam’s fingers sweep against his own as he shows off the paint and build of it. “I thought that you should at least get a memory of what you helped create if I’m gonna be driving it.”

“This is great,” Ronan tells him in a hush, almost afraid to shatter the moment, to shatter the near fragile smile Adam’s shooting his way, and how Adam’s eyes are ever so hooded and how he still hasn’t let go of Ronan’s hand.

~*~

“You’ve still got the Mustang,” Adam says tepidly as Ronan leads him into what’s become Alexander’s makeshift playroom in the main house if he isn’t in the guest quarters with his parents. Ronan thinks that he probably should’ve cleaned up a little, considering that there are mounds of Alexander’s toys strewn all over the ground.

“Hmm, oh yeah,” Ronan turns around, hopes Adam doesn’t catch his blush. “Zander ended up loving it, won’t let me or his parents near it, only Matty and Hennessy on a good day.”

“Sounds like a sensible thinker,” Adam muses, soft smile curling the corners of his mouth. 

“He’s particular as fuck,” Ronan corrects with a snicker. 

“Hope he doesn’t mind me invading his space.”

“Just pray he likes you Parrish, Hennessy had to break up with her last girlfriend just because he couldn’t stand her— Oh, erm not that. I didn’t mean…”

“Yeah Ro, I know what you meant,” Adam says quietly, and here comes that tension again, so thick that Ronan feels like he’s suffocating from it.

“Cool. I’ll just leave you to it I guess.”

“Thanks Ronan.” Adam says meaningfully and Ronan doesn’t let himself read the weight put on those simple words.

.-

Dinner is all that Ronan expects, but also somehow worse.

Adam sits as far from Ronan as physically possible, and he only answers when directly spoken to. It feels like the early days of Ricky’s World when Adam refused to hang out in Ronan’s trailer with him and Hennessy, spending the extra time revising his scripts instead. But now there’s nowhere to hide, and it’s downright painful to see him floundering and not being able to reach out and help.

“More pees Adam?” Aurora asks as she gets up to start putting dishes into the sink.

“No thank you ma— Aurora.” Adam stutters between words, rises up to help her before she waves him off.

“Nonsense dear, you’re a guest. Just sit down and relax.”

“Pretty,” Alexander marvels from Adam’s left, reaching up to fist his hand in his hair.

“No Zander, not nice,” Jordan toots from his other side.

“’S fine,” Adam assures her, eyes going soft and mouth dipping down into a grin while he picks him up from his highchair and sets him in his lap. “You got pretty hair too kiddo.” He says while lightly tugging on one of Alexander’s curls. 

Holy fucking shit is that the most precious sight Ronan has ever seen. Thankfully Hennessy must have picked up on his distress because she scoots closer to Adam right then, questions visibly ready to pounce.

“It’s been a while since we’ve caught up Adam,” she notes, not mean but not necessarily kind either.

“I know,” Adam tosses her a diffident sort of grin. “I’ve missed you guys, but it looks like you’ve been keeping Ronan in check.”

“It hasn’t been easy,” Hennessy says with a huff of laughter. She can’t be mad at him, he’s one of them, despite it all they’re a unit. They’ve got bonds that can’t break from something as trivial as time.

“Hear! hear!” Declan cheers, takes a swig from his eggnog.

“Screw you guys,” Ronan harrumphs, absolutely flummoxed by how this has somehow turned on him.

“Hey no swearing on Christmas Ronan!” Matthew squawks. “Put a five in the jar.”

Adam hikes up his brows, astonished. “Ronan not cursing?”

“It’s a tradition we started once Alexander came along,” Jordan explains with a chortle.

“Everyone breaks it a couple times throughout the week, but it’s thanks to Ronan that we get to treat ourselves to a really nice dinner every New Year’s day.” Hennessy tacks on amidst her cackles.

“You guys are a fucking mob,” Ronan grouses.

“Make it ten little brother,” Declan smirks. “An extra three for flipping the bird, don’t think I didn’t catch that!”

With a roll to his eyes, Ronan moves to put the cash in the jar they keep over the mantel, besides everyone’s stockings, pretends that the sound of Adam’s laughter melting into everyone else’s isn’t the reason why he begins to feel warm all over.

.-

It’s still awkward between them for the next few days. Adam still refuses to look at Ronan straight on and neither of them can stand to be in the same room with the other without the buffer of another person. It sucks but Ronan reckons that it’s the best possible outcome. He just hopes it’s enough of a thawing that Gansey’s show doesn’t suffer from their lack of chemistry. 

By Christmas eve they’ve fallen into a pattern, memorizing each other’s routines enough so that they don’t have to cross paths until breakfast. Today’s no different.

Afterwards its Declan's turn to wash up while Adam and Matthew collect some of the spare decorations from one of the sheds outback. Jordan and Aurora go upstairs to take Alexander a bath, while Ronan and Hennessy were recruited to stuff everyone’s stockings for tonight.

He shouldn’t be surprised that she catches onto his distress within minutes.

In as caring of a way as she can handle, Hennessy lodges a bag of recess cups at Ronan’s temple after finishing Matthew’s baggie of treats.

“I can’t hear Natalie Wood shrieking about her God damn dream house because of your loud ass thoughts,” she tells him mulishly.

“Fuck off!” Ronan replies, rubbing at the throbbing spot.

“Are the thoughts about Adam?”

“Fuck off.” Ronan repeats.

“Ooo are they dirty thoughts!”

“Hennessy I swear to fucking God.”

“Is there a Santa suit involved?”

“Alright I’m done,” Ronan stands up abruptly, glaring down at her. “Thanks for ruining Christmas bastard.”

She tosses back her head with laughter.

“There totally was!”

“Brandy so help me!” 

“You’re so red!” She says, totally gleeful.

“I’m getting a restraining order.”

“I bet I know who you want to restrain,” she goads, making it so Ronan feels like he’s literally dissolved into a puddle.

“Leave this continent.”

“Fine I’m done anyways loser,” she jeers, stands to stretch out. “But for the record, I’ve been having some late night talks with Adam, and let’s just say he’s also been picturing a Santa suit too.”

“Leave!” Ronan bellows, completely flushed now. She can’t do that! Get Ronan’s pulse to quicken and his heart to tie itself up into knots. Get him hopeful for the impossible.

“Whatever loser.”

Once Hennessy is comfortably out of hearing distance, he sits back down to finish his half of the stockings, and of course it’s Adam’s AP that he has next. 

Ronan sets in the same sorts of things as the others, with sweets and little trinkets. But what is different is the letter he finds in the pile, one addressed to Adam and written in Aurora’s familiar hand. Ronan doesn’t open it, knows that it would be all levels of sleazy if he had, but it does make him wonder. Has Adam been keeping in touch after all, and has it been with Aurora of all people? Why? How has he only now just found out? What does this even mean?

Ronan doesn’t have the time to think on it because right then he hears footsteps coming downstairs and he shoves it into Adam’s stocking as quickly as possible.

“Alright dear,” Aurora starts to say before she’s even in view “Hennessy is driving Matty and I to the Church to drop off the last of the toys, you’re good to take care of Alexander while Declan and Jordan stop by the Senator’s?”

Ronan shakes off the questions rattling around in his mind, and nods.

“It’s gross that he’s still kissing the dude’s ass years after the internship.”

“He’s the majority leader Ronan, it’s wonderful that he still has a relationship with someone like that.”

“Whatever.” Ronan snorts, kisses her cheek before she heads out.

.-

“How about this one monster,” Ronan hands Alexander a red ornament to hang off the already embellished tree. They had all spent last night dressing it up— which in layman’s terms means that Jordan directed everyone where to put the decorations for maximum esthetic pleasantness, Declan listening like the love sick fool he was, Hennessy purposely not so to annoy her, and Ronan being tugged around by a persistent Alexander to lift him up to get at the places he couldn’t reach. Matthew was content watching a Frosty rerun before putting the star on top. 

The entire time Aurora was trying to teach Adam how to knit a scarf.

It was all pretty domestic, and Ronan only sorta wanted to pretend it was reality. That it was reality that Adam belonged in their family. No, he belonged, the pretending was imagining that Adam actually wanted to belong.

“Ooo yes Ro!” Alexander crows, dragging Ronan out of the memory and wiggling around in excitement.

“Righteo kid, I think that’s enough, or else the tree’ll topple over completely, and we don’t want that, right?”

“Like the Grinch,” he says sagely, and Ronan fails at suppressing his laughter. 

“Yeah, sure, like’m. Now you wanna grab the cookies for Santa in the kitchen so we can start decorating them?”

Alexander crows yes a dozen times before leaping into Ronan’s arms. 

They walk in to find the chirping oven and a caught out looking Adam, only clad in a white T and sweats. His hair is tousled and he looks so god damn comfortable. It’s like he’s the ghost of Christmas past, present, and future all rolled up into one heavenly vessel.

“Atom!” Alexander squirms out of Ronan’s embrace and toddles up towards him, tugging his hand. “C’mon, c’mon.”

Ronan’s heart seizes at the sight of Adam’s features melting into something achingly tender when he glances down towards Alexander, they’ve admittedly become thick as thieves these last few days, both totally lost on each other.

“What are you up to kiddo,” Adam asks indulgently.

“We’re decorating the cookies for Santa clause,” Ronan answers for him, surprised at how much he wishes that Adam would join them.

“I thought people only did that in the movies,” Adam says, almost shocked at his own candor. Ronan would really like to ask what sorts of Christmases he had being brought up if something as basic as keeping cookies out for Santa wasn’t a staple, but he thinks better of it. He opts to just shrug, nonchalant.

“Help us out.”

“Please Atom!” 

For the first time all week Ronan doesn’t feel the tightness in the air, only the warmth roaring from the fireplace in the living room and the wanting he’s always felt around Adam.

“Yeah, I’d love to.”

.-

Ronan’s not surprised when Alexander prefers sitting in Adam’s lap this go around, though he is petty when their cookies come out looking a lot neater than his own.

“Messy,” Alexander giggles.

“Very messy,” Adam concurs before holding out the sprinkles for Alexander to take hold of and shake to his content.

“You guys are rude,” Ronan harrumphs, eyeing his deformed reindeer cookie that’s been broken into halves by his over zealous hand.

“Aren’t you some sort of artist?” Adam needles, moves to giving one of the gingerbread men a green dress.

“This isn’t art, Parrish! This’s just sugary dough being coated with sugary cream to make a sugary ball of teeth rotting grossness.”

“I think Uncle Ro is angry,” Adam snickers conspiratorially into Alexander’s ear.

“Uncle Ro’s messy,” Alexander answers sensibly, biting off the tip of a Christmas tree.

“I hope you both get cavities,” Ronan says morosely.

“Oh c’mon Ro,” Adam teases. “Get into the holiday spirit.”

Ronan sticks out his tongue in retaliation, and does not expect it when Adam takes a bag of the white icing and squeezes it directly into his face.

“Mother of God!” Ronan jerks back.

“There, now you’ve got a beard like Saint Nick, and you can’t be a sour patch.”

And suddenly they’re thrust backwards and are those stupid boys all over again and Ronan doesn’t even care that it’s the past once more.

“This means war, Parrish,” Ronan warns darkly, equipping himself with a bag in each hand and leaping from the sofa.

“Alexander, duck!” Adam screams before sprinting off to the kitchen, Ronan hot on their tails and a golden December haze spilling over all of them.

.-

By the end of it, the three of them are lying on the living room floor with labored breaths and suppressed laughter, each one splattered in various colors of icing and loads of sprinkles and the crumbs of ruined cookies. 

“Mother of God,” a surly looking Declan says as he steps into the room, hand in hand with a snickering Jordan. 

“Oh dear.”

“Mama! Daddy!” Alexander shrieks, toddling up to them emphatically. 

“Oh, what happened, dearest?” Jordan asks him, kissing off a rogue splash of frosting on his cheek.

“Uncle RoRo and his boyfriend’s messy.”

Ronan doesn’t have time to blush over the statement because Adam’s standing up right then, smiling abashedly at the pair of them, Ronan likes the fact that he still rinses his hands together when he’s nervous.

“Erm, hey, you guys.”

“We thought you were the responsible one Parrish,” Declan says glumly.

“Oh I never thought either of you were responsible,” Jordan corrects bemusedly. “Truly I was hoping Alexander would be the one to ensure that neither of you somehow get your heads stuck in the chimney.”

“Oy, it was one time Jordan!” Ronan glares crossly. “You’ll never let it go!”

“Nope not ever,” she crows.

“I’ll start washing up in the kitchen,” Adam offers, ducking his head to hide the grin that’s breaking his face in half and making it so something miraculous blossoms deep in Ronan’s heart.

“Good man,” Declan nods. Adam volleys Ronan a fleeting glance before he disappears behind the doorway, and he starts to rise up to join him — like Adam had cast some sort of damn incantation.

“Ronan, hold up,” Declan says, with one hand raised as if that did anything. Ronan rolls his eyes exasperatedly but waits all the same while he kisses Jordan’s hand and promises to catch up with them in just a minute. 

“Dude we’ll clean up, who the fuck do you think I am?”

“That’s not why I wanted to talk, so can you just shut it so we can get through this?” Declan says with a put upon sigh as he walks closer. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Excuse me?”

“What. Are. you. Doing,” Declan repeats with clipped words. “I thought you were over this little crush years ago.

Ronan feels caught out, accosted with the truth that he started to believe he could studiously avoid. The truth that he’ll probably never be over Adam Parrish.

“You’re on crack.”

“You still look at him like he’s the Holy fucking Bible.”

“Cram a sock in it.” Ronan feels the curves of his nails biting into his palm, the stutter to his heart.

“Ronan, can you just, for once, watch out for yourself?” Declan says, beyond caustic. “See if you guys are at least on the same page before you spend another decade pining.”

“Fuck you,” Ronan manages to seethe. Declan just closes his eyes, shaking his head ever so slightly as if that’s precisely what he expected.

“Take care of yourself little brother, that’s all.”

Declan starts the trek back to his and Jordan’s guest house and Ronan stays standing there, trying to even out his breaths and clear his mind from all the insecure what ifs Declan had breathed to life, the fucking asshole. But no matter how much Ronan tries, they persist and he’s just sick of it all. Sick of the not knowing and sick of the second guessing and sick of feeling hurt over choices he’ll never understand. 

Propelled by quaking nerves and a bone deep exhaustion, Ronan storms into the kitchen and up beside Adam who’s trying to wipe off the counter after having collected all the haphazardly thrown about bowls and utensils.

“Ronan, what’s wrong? You look like you’re about to barf,” Adam says with knit brows, setting down the sponge.

“Just explain it.”

“Excuse me?”

Maybe Ronan should stop. Maybe he should take a deep breath and assess the situation. Maybe he shouldn’t be woefully stepping onto a landmine that could destroy everything he’s ever known.

Maybe Ronan should do all that, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to play pretend anymore, he just wants to have it all out in the open, for once, he wants everything to be level between them.

“Just tell me why you left and why you didn’t stay in touch and why I should believe you. Just tell me.”

“That’s a lot to ask out of the blue,” Adam says, lips pinched and arms crossed against his chest.

“It’s not out of the blue, though,” Ronan needles, stepping close enough that their breaths can intermingle. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, especially since I saw you the first time for this show. I saw you and just everything bubbled to the forefront again and I can’t get it out of my head. You were my best friend, the person I wanted to spend every day with one second, and the next they’re writing you off and you’re flying across the goddamn country and I don’t even get a heads up. Do you know how fucking embarrassing that was? For everybody to look at me and figure I had an answer and all I could do is freak out over what must’ve happened with you! And, and—”

Ronan’s finally starting to pick up steam, but his diatribe just falls flat, everything falls flat. No, not flat; everything turns to static, like white noise. Everything is unimportant in comparison to where Adam’s lips are pressed up against Ronan’s this very second.

Literally.

His mouth is on Ronan’s mouth, like kissing, full on and breathless. 

If Ronan’s being honest it’s a bit of a mess, a cacophony of teeth and spit and tongue. But also if he’s being objective, it’s fucking remarkable. It feels like hot lava is churning in his mind and his heart’s been swept up by the sea and it tastes like golden summer days and violet night skies and promises meant to be kept.

It ends as quickly as it began and Ronan’s left floundering while he gazes at a red-faced Adam, whose hands are still cupped around Ronan’s cheeks like he’s something fragile, like he’s something Adam’s been afraid to touch for so long, less he ruins it all. 

“Oh,” Ronan hears himself sputter out, still feels plenty unbalanced and plenty like he could literally sprout a pair of wings and soar to the sky above.

Another beat passes.

“I’m gonna go get ready for midnight mass.”

“Oh,” Ronan idly wonders if Adam’s made it so that’s the only word left in his vocabulary. He reasons that’s an equal trade if he gets to kiss him again and again and again for all their tomorrows.

Slowly, Adam walks out of the kitchen and Ronan tries landing back on solid ground.

.-

“What’s wrong with your face.” Hennessy asks Ronan once he ambles downstairs dressed in one of his nicer suits.

“Screw you.” Ronan retorts, half hearted. His attention keeps flickering to the upper level where Adam’s still hiding out . It’s been a couple hours since the incident in the kitchen and he’s equal parts thrilled and terrified to what happens next between them.

“Seriously loser,” Hennessy presses, hands on her hips and glower firmly set. “You look all weird and goopy.”

“Fucking rude.”

“What happened when we were gone.” She asks, accusatory.

“Nothing you paranoid freak.” Ronan sniffs airily, turns his attention to collecting his jacket.

“Don’t play dumb with me Lynch!” Hennessy demands hotly, following close behind in her black heals. “Adam’s been cooped upstairs ever since we returned! Something happened between you didn’t it!”

“You’re insane and too obsessed with my love life.”

“Love life? Since when is Adam apart of your love life,” she crows, grin going devious, and oh fuck. Ronan is so stupid for that one.

“I have no idea what you’re alluding too.”

“Something happened between you guys! You got caught up in holiday cheer and got all romantical! Didn’t you!” Hennessy squawks, practically hopping with excitement.

“Bite your god damn tongue.”

“But it’s true!”

Ronan’s only saving grace is when Aurora calls all of them over to head out to the church for midnight mass, and he ends up taking a different car than her. Though the downside of that is how she ends up getting to ride there with Adam.

Jesus help him.

.-

Saint Agnes is dressed up in the decor of the season, filled to the brim with worshipers that nearly outnumber the candles spread around the expanse of indoors. This part— singing Christmas carols and being surrounded by his family— was always Niall’s favorite part of the holiday, so of course it ended up being Ronan’s favorite too; nonetheless, Ronan purposeful holds back as everyone else piles through the church’s open doors. Ronan can’t focus on anything, not before he could pull Adam aside and ask what in holy hell had happened in the kitchen. Not before he finally understands the ground they’re walking on with each other.

Admittedly, Ronan’s more than a bit surprised that instead of demanding Adam speak to him, it’s Ronan who’s accosted by a very focused and very deliberate Adam who swaggers up to him with a focussed sort of expression etched into his delicate features.

“Wanna go on a walk?”

“Ah sure,” Ronan says. “But we can just take one of the cars and drive instead?”

“Nah, I wanna be able to look at you straight on.” He pivots around and starts his track down the streets, and Ronan’s left slightly breathless, and very fearful but mostly sorta turned on.

.-

It’s strange being in Henrietta.

This is the place where Ronan first met Adam, where they spent countless hours and days and weeks with only the other to call their best friend. As they promenade down the street Ronan keeps glancing at familiar joints they frequented together. The ice cream parlor they visited every Tuesday to read through their lines from the new script they were given that morning and expected to have memorized by Thursday. he park that Adam always favored, and where Ronan got to show him his new favorite band for that particular moment. The grocery store where they snagged that rundown shopping cart, the one they had taken turns dragging the other on using the Mustang. 

Henrietta will always feel like putting on an old jumper, like the uncomplicated joy of juvenescence and the buoyancy of their easy laughter that spills all around them. It feels like an otherworldly place in Ronan’s eyes. So it’s more than surprising when the first thing Adam says in nearly a quarter of an hour with them just ambling down the streets is that he hates this place.

“What?” Ronan baffles, dark brows knit together.

“I hated it here, hated filming Ricky’s World.” Adam says with conviction, fists clenched together so tight that Ronan could spot the white of his knuckles. And yeah, that’s probably the worst thing Ronan could’ve ever heard, that what Adam so obviously despises, is what Ronan has always held with such reverence.

He isn’t sure where to go from that statement, so Ronan just stays quiet. He doesn’t say that he’s sorry because that could be misconstrued as pity, and if Ronan has ever known Adam, it’s that he hates even the thought of pity. Rather, Ronan concentrates on the fairy lights draped around the town with gusto, on the new round of snowflakes gently cascading down, on how they contrast against the charcoal suit Adam’s wearing. Ronan tries hard not to think about the painful twist to his stomach or the gutted way he feels, especially not the hollowness of his heart.

“I remember dreaming of when i’d turn eighteen, of when I didn’t have to live with them. Ronan doesn’t have to ask who are the them he’s referring to. He might be occasionally dense, but he’s not a fucking idiot, he’s put the pieces together fully now. He knows that Adam’s parents are a steaming pile of dog shit. He doesn’t know exactly how deeply their shititude runs, seriously doubts Adam would ever tell him. But still, he hates them. Hates that Adam had to be brought up with them. “I kept dreaming about moving out and finding projects I believed in and scripts that I loved.”

“You did do that,” Ronan says, voice blank to even his own ears.

“Yeah, yeah I did. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything, honestly. ’s how I met Blue, and how I got so many other opportunities.”

Ronan stays quiet, feels like Adam’s stabbing him repeatedly with a fucking machete, but this feels like it’s been on the tip of Adam’s tongue for a while now. So Ronan’ll keep his mouth shut, even if it feels like he’s slowly dying.

“But Ronan, when I started out on the show, I never…. I never thought that I’d fall in love with it, with the story and cast and, and—“ His words go stilted again, and his face is twisted up i a way that it looks like he’s in pain. And Ronan’s left wrong footed all over again.

“I didn’t anticipate how much I’d miss you all when I left, but I had to cut that part of my life out, cut out anything Robert had any hand in. And I know that makes me a fucking coward.”

Ronan wants to argue, wants to yell at him that what he was feeling was completely valid, completely understandable. He wants to shake some sense into him, but Adam must’ve expected as much because he puts soft finger tips against Ronan’s lips, setting his insides ablaze.

“When I heard Niall passed, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. He was such a good father to you guys, loved you all so fucking much. And it isn’t fair that he’s gone and Robert’s and pricks like Robert are still free to walk.”

Ronan’s still dumbfounded on how he should respond to all of this, but Adam doesn’t look like he even wants Ronan to interject, more like he wants all of this to pour out of him without any interruption. So Ronan does just that, stands still, and marvels at the snowflakes caught in Adam’s impossibly long lashes, and hooks his pinky into Adam’s unoccupied one as their eyes continue to peer into one another’s.

“I came to the funeral, I had a hold speech prepared and everything to apologize to you.” Adam divulges, and Ronan feels like the wind’s been punched right out of him.

“But—“

“I saw you with your brothers and the twins and some people I didn’t recognize, and you looked like you were so loved, that you’d be taken care of, and I didn’t want to be some sort of burden to you, not after something so traumatic, so fucking awful.”

“You’d never be a burden dumb ass,” Ronan says, the words coming out more fond than he intended, but it makes it so Adam’s lips curve slightly upwards, and his hand moves from touching his lips ever so slightly to instead caressing his cheek with soft wonderment.

“I ran into your Ma while I was trying to leave without be seen and it was the first time in a while that I was reminded of our days on Ricky’s World and I didn’t feel guilty over it.”

“Yeah, I noticed you guys are penpals now,” Ronan says pointedly.

“You jealous?” Adam goads, and holy fucking Christ is that a good color on him.

“Maybe I’m greedy about you Parrish,” Ronan counters in the same playful inflection, growing more confident with each second that passes.

“She’s the one who told me you were trying out for Gansey’s show,” Adam admits abashedly, cheeks flushed and bottom lip worried between his teeth.

And oh.

“You joined the cast because of me?” Ronan perks, probably all levels of excruciating with the mirth dripping from his voice, but he doesn’t fucking care.

“I like you Ronan, I’ve liked you for a while. And I know I’ve been kinda spacey and a prick and I don’t know—“

Adam stops talking right then, it’s Ronan’s turn to interrupt with a kiss that makes their insides sing and their ribcages crack open with a happiness he’s never known.

Somewhere in the distance Dean martin’s singing about staying in from the cold, but Ronan doesn’t feel the chill at all, especially not when Adam’s grasp fastens around the nape of his neck and he pulls Ronan impossibly closer on this December night.

.-

~Epilogue, 3 weeks later~

Opening night went off with a boom. The theatre was packed and Gansey was enthused, but most poignantly was the fact that everyone watched Adam and Ronan on stage, and there wasn’t a flicker of a doubt that they were fated lovers, with destinies written out in providence.

“It was smashing!” Jordan had yelled into Ronan’s ear once finally catching sight of him in the penthouse overflowing with booze and friends celebrating their success. 

“You know it,” he tells her before kissing her temple and continuing his search for Adam. 

He catches snippets of moments, like Gansey being introduced to Blue’s equally short and equally terrifying mother who’s starred in like ten seasons of General Hospital now. He sees Noah’s pale head making out with a head of hair that could only belong to Henry fucking Cheng, and Helen having a very important looking conversation with one of Blue’s terrifyingly intense aunties— Calla— of all people.

Ronan can hardly temper down the grin that’s threatening to break free. This hodgepodge of people of Ronan’s world are all here, they all somehow— impossibly— seem to be fitting into one another. This finally feels right.

Ronan loses the battle with his face permanently once he finally spots Adam in the corner, nursing a beer and laughing with both Hennessy and Declan, twinkling up at Ronan once he finally reaches them.

“You wanna get out of here?” He asks knowingly, kisses the corner of his mouth when Ronan intertwines their fingers and squeezes tight.

“Nah, we’ve got plenty of time,” he tells him, and it’s astounding that he actually means it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest thing i have ever published jfoiaerjfviuerhnfiuaejui
> 
> Thank you so so so much for reading loves, I’ve been working on this on and off for months now, and I wish I could’ve done a better job with it, especially because it’s a gift to someone so wonderful, but I don’t want to let myself craze over it for who knows however long. 
> 
> It would mean all the galaxies to me if you maybe left a comment letting me know what you thought!! I would be so thankful!!
> 
> Please come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://LiterallyLen.tumblr.com) !!!
> 
> All My Love!  
> ~Len


End file.
